She could not make up her mind which was the finer, more elemental thing, which gave its values to the other. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. “I don’t know. He embraced her small body in his arms, kissing her forehead over and over. Never in this world! Let the hotel people take care of him; it's their affair. Still —there you are!” He paused.
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