" "Entreat a fiddlestick!" retorted Mrs. Loneliness. “Hey you,” he said affectionately. "I believe he is conscious," she answered. " "What?" "We'll put those stories back into the trunk and never speak of them to him. She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. Nobody ever called me John, that I recollect. The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night.
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