She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. She felt smaller and more adventurous even than she had expected to feel. " "You believe—you know it," replied Jonathan, fixing one of his sternest and most searching glances upon him. He sat down. She had almost chosen to prostitute herself rather than live in that animal state once, but had found a warm cave in Kentucky just as situations had grown truly desperate. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping.
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