“His stipend forbade it,” she said, and seemed to fall into a train of thought. "Good night. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. She rested her head upon his shoulder. Even as she watched, the sweat of weakness began to form on his forehead and under the nether lip. "The end is the most beautiful in English literature. And some were adorned with engravings that struck her as being more vulgar and undesirable than anything she had ever seen in her life. "To those who, like me, have never been able to get out of the dark and dreary paths of life, the grave is indeed a refuge, and the sooner they reach it the better.
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