She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. ” He bent and kissed her hair and paused, and then forced his attention back to the map. He first met her when he had caught her smoking behind the Joliet LaudrO-Matic one cool overcast day in late August. I didn’t believe him and I said so. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness.
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