“Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. "What has put it into your head that your son yet lives?" he asked. She found a clean sweatshirt and soft pajama pants, glad to trade the wet for the dry. She knew that to expect more now was like anticipating a gold-mine in the garden.
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