Michelle's home was one of the smaller palaces, made solidly of red brick with charming black shutters and window boxes full of drooping violets. "Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. . ‘Allow me. Horrible details recurred to her. One puts gloves on one’s greedy fingers. I couldn’t help the thought. Suddenly she became aware of the fact that he had brought no lunch. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her.
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