Wood in the deepest mourning. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. I didn’t know he had Italian relatives. Oh, I’ve loved love, dear! I’ve loved love and you, and the glory of you; and the great time is over, and I have to go carefully and bear children, and—take care of my hair—and when I am done with that I shall be an old woman.
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