“It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. She got into rows through meddling with their shoes and tennis-rackets, and had moments of carefully concealed admiration when she was privileged to see them just before her bedtime, rather radiantly dressed in white or pink or amber and prepared to go out with her mother. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol.
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