She refrained. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. Manning leaned forward on the table, talking discursively on the probable brilliance of their married life. "Red apples and snow!" she sent back at him, her face suddenly transfixed by some inner glory. Keeping hold of the doorhandle, she turned slowly. I’ve made up my mind. . “I like you very much John.
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