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She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. ‘Her own,’ Gerald replied. Howard Taber. Saturday mornings at the Beck house were routine, coffee, newspaper, bagels, and Looney Toons in no particular order. She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. There was. Both of them would be committing novel and unforgettable acts.
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