” He said. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. “Promise me that you’ll never tell another living soul, John. Here's a nosegay for you, my love," she continued, opening her basket, and presenting a fragrant bunch of flowers to Winifred, "if your mother will allow me to give it you. ’ ‘Pah! How can it be romantic? That is silly.
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