The temperature soared to one hundred degrees, sickeningly hot. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. Not a scar but has its history. She drew it out with shaking fingers. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. They had refused.
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