We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. I don’t care if you never tell me any of your secrets. But ere the words could find utterance, her maternal tenderness overcame her indignation; and, sinking upon her knees, she extended her arms over her child. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. "Those chops, fried potatoes, and buttered toast. "But I happen to be an honest man myself.
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