" "You had better write them for me, Mr. Then he stood up and hailed a fiacre. Mother and Son. She had once reconciled in her mind that she was happy as long as she had him. The world had not passed by but had gone around it in a tremendous half-circle. Paintings sold off the walls. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. Your history, your actions, nay, your very thoughts are better known to me than to your spiritual adviser.
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