She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. She bought her Greyhound ticket one steamy afternoon when school let out at eleven thirty A. That was the true miracle of the gift; without actual experience, to imagine love and hate and greed and how they would react upon each other; and then, when these passions had served their temporary purpose, to cast them aside for new imaginings.
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