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She tucked her stick under her arm and re-read Manning’s letter. Maggot. She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened. ” It was sitting in her suitcase in the same pocket as the expired bus tickets. That shining slope of snow, and how we talked of death! We might have died! Even when we are old, when we are rich as we may be, we won’t forget the tune when we cared nothing for anything but the joy of one another, when we risked everything for one another, when all the wrappings and coverings seemed to have fallen from life and left it light and fire. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience.
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