And there was another matter. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. Stanley considered. There was a pause, while the steel grey eyes sliced at her. Already she knew that she was overstaying her welcome. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. “I’m going for a long tramp, auntie,” she said.
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