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But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. This is a good piano. “That sounds so uncouth,” she murmured. Here she walked more slowly, looking constantly at the notices in the shop windows. Day after day she pounded him with curses, saying that her mother looked down on him from Heaven and sent a curse, to which he laughed. Everything goes—the copra for oil, the fibre of the husk for rope, and the shell for carbon.
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