Yes, this was a little better. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. “Vee,” she said, “come home. The pursuit of pleasure, selfgratification, is an original instinct with her. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. “It’s bound to be all right,” she said. “But,” he said, “you do not blame me altogether?” She rose to her feet. “I shouldn’t have waited,” she said.
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