The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. “I feel like a giant! I believe now I shall do great things. And a broken picture that was torn when I hit him with it. "Open the door, I say, or I'll burst it open. I didn’t ought to have sent for him. "And someday let him care for me!" She sprang up, alarmed. Before his departure, he gave his assistant a glove.
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