Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. The entire city seemed to exist for beauty and art alone. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. She dived at once behind the cover of the lamproom and affected serious trouble with her shoe-lace until he was out of the station, and then she followed slowly and with extreme discretion until the bifurcation of the Avenue from the field way insured her escape.
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