" So saying, he re-entered the house, closed the door, and, followed by the widow, proceeded to the fire-place, where a handful of chips, apparently just lighted, crackled within the rusty grate. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. It is positively hateful to think of it. They fell into step again. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. ’ He laughed. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V.
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