She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation. They were just nice. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. Daughters were not like sons. It is a lovely little appendage to the mother who smiles over it, and it does things quaintly like her, gestures with her very gestures. It took Marina in three days. I don’t want to hear you.
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