Her natural instincts reasserted themselves. By a tacit agreement they ignored the significant thing between them, ignored the slipping away of the ground on which they had stood together hitherto. “Hello, Teddy!” she answered. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. My only love is for my poor lost son. She had treated him badly; she had hurt him and her aunt; she had done wrong by their standards, and she would never persuade them that she had done right. Of course I knew all about him years ago, and he is exactly like everybody’s description of him. Rather would I have gone with Leonardo—and he wished me to do so.
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