“For my part I can see no difference in any of these French girls who come over here with their demure manner and atrocious songs. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. Why not? Imagine I’ve had a fit of hysteria—and that I’ve come round. Bu kokulara karşı bir çözüm arayışı, genç bir Fransız parfümör olan Sophie için bir tutkuya dönüştü. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. “John?” He turned around in the recliner.
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