"I have him!" cried a voice in triumph. ‘It needs not that you tell me. “Julian, please, let’s go to your place. His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. His frowning gaze came back to her. Some man! And to conclude it all was the figure of her father in the doorway, giving her a last chance, his hat in one hand, his umbrella in the other, shaken at her to emphasize his point. ’ She saw the weapon wrenched from Emile’s hand and he dropped to the bench of the pew and sat there, grasping helplessly at the welling blood on his arm.
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