Warm life was behind that always, even if it slept. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. “Thank you—and good-bye. “I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica; “I think I am. . ” 174 < 21 > THANKSGIVING She padded softly up the old stairs, exhausted and elated. Mere hangers on.
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