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Of you—an angel with one wing. ” He came and stood on the hearthrug close to her. His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. "This locket," he said, taking a little ornament attached to a black ribband from his breast, and giving it her,—"do you remember it?" "I do—I do!" cried Winifred. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. “I would like to go home,” she cried, “to please her. How she had coveted her mother’s beauty and sought to emulate it, if only to please her. ” “Yes, Lucy, but you could make the same statement looking in the mirror.
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