My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. She fled. ” “It’s the perpetual trouble,” he said, “of parent and child. I've a shrewd guess where he's taken refuge; but I'll ferret him out. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. ” “The sooner the better,” he answered. She struggled not to be afraid.
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