It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. She threw him his car keys. "You have said," pursued the widow, "that she, who has once erred, is irreclaimable. Who was he?” “Intriguing. But he seized the chance to entrap her fingers, fan and all, and look deeply into her eyes.
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