She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. “I believe,” he said slowly, “that I shall do best to throw myself upon your consideration and tell you the truth. "How long shall I be here?" he asked. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. An old woman took her in. A chain, riveted to an iron belt encircling her waist, bound her to the wall.
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