Do you recall the night she showed you the face in the locket? Do you remember how she said—'If only my mother had lived'? Did you ever see anything more tender or beautiful?" "I remember. She was saying good-bye to childhood and home, and her making; she was going out into the great, multitudinous world; this time there would be no returning. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. “Did they ever try it for themselves?” He wrestled his chin between her thighs as she tried to squeeze her legs shut upon his ears.
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