Particles of bullet were embedded in Rhea’s large arm as she swung across the stones in her donated legs. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. Mother and Son XI. “That is very nice of you,” she said. ‘Don’t dare address me by such a title. They are all at prayer at this hour. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. "But to drag this innocent child into the muck! With her head full of book nonsense—love stories and fairy stories! Have you any idea of the tragedy she is bound to stumble upon some day? I don't care about you.
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