That was the true miracle of the gift; without actual experience, to imagine love and hate and greed and how they would react upon each other; and then, when these passions had served their temporary purpose, to cast them aside for new imaginings. “Call me Cathy, John. Mother—dear mother!" he added, clasping her in his arms, "Look at me again. He recognized the handwriting, and turned a shade paler. A single false step might have precipitated him into the street; or, if he had trodden upon an unsound part of the roof, he must have fallen through it.
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