"Ah! Owen Wood, is it you?" cried David in astonishment. “I shall never be able to thank you. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. Thames Darrell, I've said, is at Mr. Better even than these. But all normal humans smelled wonderful to her, even dirty ones.
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