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As to his mother, I've no pity for her. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. He took a handful of almonds and raisins that she held out to him—for both these young people had given up the practice of going out for luncheon—and kept her hand for a moment to kiss her finger-tips. What she had termed illuminative now appeared to be only another phase of the mystery which enveloped the child. You and I. ” “You have not seen the evening paper?” “No.
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