The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. The only part of his otherwise-interesting countenance, to which one could decidedly object, was the mouth; a feature that, more than any other, is conceived to betray the animal propensities of the possessor. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. ” “You—you did what?” Anna exclaimed. The air became hot and swollen with June humidity.
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