He had barely settled at his desk in his library, when he was disturbed by two morning callers. She was thinking fast now, all her senses on the alert. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. She put her hand in his to be squeezed. There are so many girls nowadays who are quite unpresentable at tea, with their untrimmed laughs, their awful dispositions of their legs when they sit down, their slangy disrespect; they no longer smoke, it is true, like the girls of the eighties and nineties, nevertheless to a fine intelligence they have the flavor of tobacco. John picked it up and put it in her hands. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. “Carolyn loves ‘Fiddler on the Roof.
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