She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. He leapt down into the haha surrounding the terrace, and saw that the nun was there also and backing towards him, anxiously checking now and then above the level of the terrace. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. She drifted back into the welcoming arms of sleep, feeling herself surrounded in silk.
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