She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. She drew a chair to the window and stared at the splendour of the tropical night. She felt his erection against her naked thigh.
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