“All right?” asked the man with the light eyelashes, suddenly appearing in the doorway. What reassured her, however, more than anything else, was the shape of the mouth: it was warmly turned. But she made no answer. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls’ heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. Almost the last female to bear the name, too,’ muttered the old lady. She was young and bright, little to no make-up except for lip-gloss, long, straight, glossy reddish blonde hair slightly past her shoulders. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it.
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