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Unformatted text preview: n her eyes, "His heart is broken!" Well, here comes the kid with the wonder glue for broken hearts! Stand back, world, it's little Mona. She passed through the high keyhole doorway into the front hall, and then she stopped and put her hands on the frame, as Oncle Julien had done in so many old pictures, in this door or the other, and she just felt the silence and bigness of the house around her, and smelled its wood. That other smell. There it was again, making her . . . what? Almost hungry. It was delicious, whatever it was. Not butterscotch, no, not caramel, not chocolate, but something thick like that, a flavor that seemed a hundred flavors compressed into one. Like the first time you bit into a chocolate-covered cherry cordial. Or a Cadbury Easter egg. No, she needed a better comparison. Something you didn't eat. What about the smell of hot tar? That tantalized her, too, and then there was the smell of gasoline that she just couldn't tear herself away from. Well, this was more like that. She moved down the hall, noting the winking lights of other alarm devices, none of them armed, all of them waiting, and the smell became strongest when she stood at the foot of the stairs. She knew Uncle Ryan had...
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- Spring '10