“Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris. All that she had ever loved were gone, except Sebastian. God had never answered any of her prayers. Thank you for walking me home the other day. He first met her when he had caught her smoking behind the Joliet LaudrO-Matic one cool overcast day in late August. She leaped to a world of shabby knowledge, of furtive base realizations.
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