The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. Daughters were not like sons. ” “Madman!” “Blithering ass!” The girl looked into the two indignant faces and held out both her hands. She’s hated me for no apparent reason ever since Fourth Grade. 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 did not occur to her that save for some accidents of education and character they had souls like her own.
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