I care not. It’s a beautiful plant, but a tender one. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. By a tacit agreement they ignored the significant thing between them, ignored the slipping away of the ground on which they had stood together hitherto. Sometimes I think she’s tired of us. “Maternity,” she said, “has been our undoing. “I love your sister. Her eyelids fluttered with recognition, and she cried out softly.
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