So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. Ramage. The man looked as though he would have liked to deny it, but could not. I thank God for the beauty you love and the faults you love. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava.
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