" "When will you want me?"—with pitiful eagerness. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. After all there are other things. My only love is for my poor lost son. “I don’t care a rap for remembering.
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