"Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow. He stood with his hands in his pockets looking at Miss Klegg’s back. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. He would have to go on; he would be forced to enact all the obligations he had imposed upon himself. Under the somewhat trying incandescent light her cheeks pleaded guilty to a recent use of the powder puff. She had unaccountable gleams of sympathy with and liking for him.
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