Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. She could not speak. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. “I am sorry,” she said, “if you find the likeness unsatisfactory. Leave the means to me. A piece of old blanket was fastened across her shoulders, and she had no other clothing except a petticoat. ‘Let’s see now. But she wished she could put the thing she had done in some way to them so that it would not hurt them so much as the truth would certainly do.
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