John’s father added cheerfully, “So, do you play any violin?” She balked at the stereotype, but admitted, “Yes, I play violin. The smell of laundry detergent was noticeable, the bed sheets very tightly stretched across the bed, tucked in on three sides. ” She laughed gaily. “I haven’t a scrap—of this sort of aversion. ” She looked down at the flowers, still in shock, and gently laid them over her arm like a Miss America candidate practicing a crowning ceremony at a pajama party. I cannot explain beyond that.
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