Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. At last in a street near the Hampstead Road she hit upon a room that had an exceptional quality of space and order, and a tall woman with a kindly face to show it. I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years. She was always breaking rules, whispering asides, intimating signals. Then his tiny bow mouth opened into an adoring smile. "Put it under my pillow," he said.
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