Her curiosity was insatiable, her dreams filled with happy speculation over what hair color her babies would inherit. He did not write this with lead but with his heart's blood. Even as she watched, the sweat of weakness began to form on his forehead and under the nether lip. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. He will not help them—and I told Emile so—and thus he sends them to my other grandpére, even that he knows he is dead. “It isn’t quite that we’re toys.
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