Afterwards we started for a motor ride to a place outside Paris for déjeuner, and I suppose the man’s nerve failed him. She exhaled, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders and arms. I don’t know. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. “Are you A, B, C, or D?” he asked. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella.
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