No mercenary consideration influences me. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. WE don’t think they’re right, but they don’t think we are. “You’re not a man for me—not one of a sex, I mean.
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