” “Not yet,” he said. He cupped her small hands in the bowl of his large ones and reassured her in the kindest manner, saying, “You will have the finest life that Florence has to offer. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. Fritz flailed against his mother wildly, crying generous tears. He took his social pleasures once a year in Hong-Kong, after Easter. If he got her outside, surely the soldiers would see her and intervene. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. . . This is grace I am saying! Oh! my dear! all the joy and weeping of life are mixed in me now and all the gratitude. “I want to lay all my life at your feet.
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