She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. He lowered her neck before her, and she noticed a bizarre urge to bite him rising from her mind like an itch. His father spoke for him. There is worse to come. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story.
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