The daughters, he had hoped, would be their mother’s care. “It was my sister Anna. He took some Oreos from the bottomless supply that stocked the cookie jar. She pushed him gently on the chest. Later, she would sew it on. ” Drummond shook his head in melancholy fashion. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity.
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