Empty, silly, coarse brutes. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. The dizziness made the trees sickening, the smell of Michelle’s perfume soapy and revolting. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her.
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