The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that.
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