” He shook her diminutive hand. It was not a hard face, but it was resolute. His mother smiled in return, an act that brightened her thin face. "I can, and will. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. “For luck. " There was a pause. . She would ignore him. They embarked upon an open and declared friendship. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations.
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