But his astonishment would have been great indeed had he known that not even her father had ever caressed her, either with lips or with hands. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. So he found her when he came round the corner of the spinney. Not a breath was drawn. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella.
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