One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms. Nine years ago, I was honest—was happy. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. They confronted each other, barely feet apart, neither apparently any longer aware of anyone else in the room. A dreamy sense of content crept over him. “I can’t imagine it,” said Miss Miniver.
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