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It came again. The thing rankled in her mind night and day. “Perhaps. "Have nine years so changed me, that there is no trace left of your adopted son?" "God bless me!" ejaculated the carpenter, rubbing his eyes, "can—can it be?" "Surely," screamed Mrs. Michelle sat on her bed, which emanated scents of powdered laundry detergent and Sweet Honesty perfume. In nearly every speech she heard was the same implication of great and necessary changes in the world—changes to be won by effort and sacrifice indeed, but surely to be won. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. “You told me that in the Zoological Gardens.
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