” “I am Mrs. She loved him. She looked at her flattened belly. . The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. She felt terribly modern, even sporty as the magazines declared you should be. That turned her mind to the more generalized aspects of her perplexities again. And one must—some of it must slip through one’s fingers. " "Never count your chickens till they're hatched," observed Mrs.
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