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“It is like old times,” she said, “to hear these home truths. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. We pretend we never think of everything that makes us what we are. Then I saw Mrs. . “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. ” He turned to the waiter, who held a wine-card. She stood there with white set face and nervously clenched fingers. CHAPTER I. “Who can tell?” she said. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. The doorbell tinkled and Michelle grabbed her purse and rushed down the creaky wooden stairs.
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