She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. “She’s going to have some sort of meal with the Widgetts down the Avenue, and go up with them. She got home every night in time to cook supper and it was good money. “You may not leave. need me a little?" "Not a little, but a great deal.
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