She spoke with a certain odd deliberation carefully chosen words which fell like drops of ice upon the man who sat listening. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. She could not hide her face. I had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky.
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