But the besetting evil of the place, and that which drew down the severest censures of the writers above-mentioned, was that this spot,—which of all others should have been most free from such intrusion—was made a public exhibition. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. “Fine. He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. She's headed for America. I'm not particular what or where. Lonesomeness isn't my worry.
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