The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. "Von't you hear me?—ough! ough!" demanded Sharples, after a pause. “I want to speak to you. One always dreamed of this and never believed it. He regarded that perennial miracle of pinning with wrathful eyes. It’s made up of things as small as the diameter of hairs and big as life and death.
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