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My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. His treatment of his wife is most unsatisfactory. ” “Act two,” she continued. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. “When did you look up my mother’s records at the Joliet library, Michelle?” Lucy asked, trying not to incriminate herself by sounding confrontational.
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