She felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. My, um, my curfew. She kept thinking she was thinking about Mr. He first met her when he had caught her smoking behind the Joliet LaudrO-Matic one cool overcast day in late August. His scent was like sweet perfume in her state, like the sweet smell of infants. I deserve pretty much what I’ve got. ‘Even the nuns they say I am like a devil.
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