There’s the internal factor as well as the external. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. “No. ” She raked into the fire with the poker. It was decrepit and too large. "What's that you're saying about Jack Sheppard?" she cried. The Bach Cantata was played fairly well, Sebastian thought, for a lot of children. But God did not put you next door. She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end.
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