"Heaven be praised, I am not the son of a nobleman. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. Here was a hole as wide as a church-door. “There was a keg, hash, LSD, pot, you know, the usual. He regarded that perennial miracle of pinning with wrathful eyes. You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls.
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