‘This from a man who calls himself my friend. She so wanted to keep her memory of him fresh, so wanted to memorize his kisses and to conjure his embrace someday when he was mere dust in the ground. She was like an angel with one wing. " And, as if to make the moral more obvious, a dirty pack of cards was scattered, underneath, upon the sawdust. Here a little delay occurred. But the aunt seized her in her arms and rocked with her. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. But they were all pretty nearly of the same length, and built somewhat after the model of a boat, having extremities as sharp and pointed as the keel of a canoe. Too late. The perspiration stood out upon his forehead. " The little girl's countenance fell.
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