There were the burnt papers still in the grate. Somebody may be on the watch—perhaps, that old ginger-hackled Jew. His scent was like sweet perfume in her state, like the sweet smell of infants. “Damn”. He had been formally adopted by the Becks at the age of twelve. At the bottom of the trunk was a large manila envelope, unmarked. As if he read her thought, he spoke it aloud. ‘Don’t let us quarrel over your Leonardo,’ he said, summoning a faint smile.
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