‘What do you do here?’ demanded the young lady, moving to meet him. Piercing through every crevice in the clothes, it, in some cases, tore them from the wearer's limbs, or from his grasp. It was her foster brother Mike, on his way to the bathroom. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. Occasionally she would be missing a sock or a bra, so she took to storing those things in her gym locker. He went over her features one by one in his mind. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. It proved to be a human head, though with scarcely a vestige of the features remaining. He sat up in his chair as though the question had stung him.
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