He seemed to be thinking hard. Your mother, for what it’s worth to you—for there’s nothing for you here, by God!—was the woman I chose for Nicholas. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. "I leave this bowl for you," he cried, returning it to the landlord untasted.
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