I guess those books are okay because they are fiction. ” Then she looked up at him with frightened eyes. As you admitted to me—one has to square one’s self with the world. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. " "I imagine I've been in a kind of trance.
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