The place, in which they stood, was a small entrance-chamber, cut off, like the segment of a circle, from the main apartment, (of which it is needless to say it originally constituted a portion,) by a stout wooden partition. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out. Even two Cabinet Ministers took to their heels, grinning insincerely. My foster mom works there as a second job.
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