It was a great relief to arrive at last at that pause when she could say to her aunt, “Now, dear?” and rise and hold back the curtain through the archway. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. Pale, flesh-colored light filtered in through the corners of the house. Her eyes travelled about the room as if in appeal to the very chairs. Nothing to check their proceedings but a declining habit of telling the truth and the limitations of their imaginations.
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