’ ‘Leonardo again,’ Gerald muttered and, to her disappointment, dropped her hand. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. She got into rows through meddling with their shoes and tennis-rackets, and had moments of carefully concealed admiration when she was privileged to see them just before her bedtime, rather radiantly dressed in white or pink or amber and prepared to go out with her mother. While there's life there's hope.
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