On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Now that she was his, to make or mar, she presented an extraordinary fascination. We smirk, and we’re a bit—furtive. “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.
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