She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. One could go to him and tell him one loved him. The child was still safe. How much Mary knew is a mystery. But something instinctive prevented that, and with the finest resolve not to be “silly” and prudish she found that whenever he became at all bold in this matter she became severely scientific and impersonal, almost entomological indeed, in her method; she killed every remark as he made it and pinned it out for examination.
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