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She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. How provoking!" she added, pretending to rummage her pockets; "one never can find a thing when one wants it. ” Chapter XIX “THIS IS NOT THE END” “I said some afternoon,” she remarked, throwing open her warm coat, and taking off her gloves, “but I certainly did not mean to-day.
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