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Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. " "Whom do you mean?" demanded Jackson. III. " "Silly love stories?" "No; love wasn't the theme. “Martin, you realize that I’m dating someone, don’t you?” She knew his reply before he uttered it. “And, you know, you’re altering us all. It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness.
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