That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it. And, after all, a fine clear sky of bright colors is the signal to come out of hiding and rejoice and go on with life. For the face under her gaze she could find but one expression—fine. Rumors had it he had been a looker in his youth, all long hair and chiseled muscles, but those days were long gone. I took him out of the hands of death. See how he gets on, father," he added, appealing to Wood: "the box seems to grow under his hands.
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