And afterward her mother and Alice kissed long and clung to each other. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. “You see, daddy, I don’t think it IS preposterous. ” “I can’t work. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother.
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