She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. ” “I suppose all IS well that ends well. Daughters were not like sons. Always! I don’t believe there is any strong natural affection at all between parents and growing-up children. I'll have to put some pep into the game— American pep.
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