F. " The poor widow hung her head, and pressed her child closer to her breast. But what are you doing here?” “Old Père Runeval met me on your doorstep, and he would not let me go. My mom doesn’t realize that I’ve got my own style. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. Fascination. It’s made up of things as small as the diameter of hairs and big as life and death. She began to weep in long, aching sobs. I asked him why, and he hadn’t a reason. The key's in the lock, on the inner side. The idea of Ruth as a talisman against misfortune—which he now recognized as a sick man's idea— faded as his appreciation of the absurd reasserted itself. THAMES DARRELL.
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