I was sorry for what I did afterwards; for, I don't know why, but, poor, lady! with her pale face, and black eyes, she reminded me of my mother. One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms. He leaned forward to embrace her. I never made any effort to touch them; so by and by they learned to light fearlessly on my arms and shoulders. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. His father spoke for him.
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