” “One has theories,” said Ann Veronica, radiantly. "Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. Too much, perhaps. I guess. Me, you may have. This was the worst summer that I ever had in my life, Europe and all, and I can’t tell you how many times I drove by that Violin Camp hoping to catch a look at you, praying that there wasn’t some horny violin guy waiting to ask you out. 8 or 1. I would have heard her. . F. ‘Couldn’t even trouble to make a pretence of motherhood. Mr. Wood in the deepest mourning. Take care of the old clothesman, and leave the rest to me.
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