The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her. Of all the amazing coincidences. 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. She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation.
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