There was something fatalistic about the letter H. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. And if he won’t—” But she did not give even unspoken words to the alternative at that time. Covered with houses, from one end to the other, this reverend and picturesque structure presented the appearance of a street across the Thames. She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. “I wonder what you could do?” he said.
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