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She rested her head upon his shoulder. “There are a good many Whites in London. It had felt wonderful to pick up the fiddle again. Then, after Capes had been through her work and had gone on, it came to her that the fabric of this life of hers was doomed to almost immediate collapse; that in a little while these studies would cease, and perhaps she would never set eyes on him again. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now.
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