She felt as if she had struck them unawares. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. It was the size of my palm. The sun was rising, illuminating the trees in black as if they were drawn in ink.
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