She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. He spoke only when he saw the sing-song girl he wanted to buy. He entered it; crossed the room, in which there was only a small truckle-bed, over which he stumbled; opened another door and gained the stair-head. "Well, you never can tell," he continued, lamely. “Very likely,” he answered. “Your coffee’s too good to refuse.
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