"It is addressed to my mother," he added, as his eye glanced rapidly over it, "and by my father. Even on cool days the gardens were colorful and bright, with orange trees emanating sweetness and bumblebees drunkenly weaving from flower to flower. I, too, want to understand—to walk with my head in the light. ” “Why did you keep her all of these years? What good can it do?” “She created me, Lucia. Mr.
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