"They say her son's taken at last, and is to be hanged. Instead, they lived a Bohemian existence, moving from patron to patron, city to city. " "I'll tell you really why I keep her in peeled paint. " "Waste not another word with him, Thames," cried Jack. She leaned over and kissed his cheek innocently. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. They either ran to see or ran for shelter.
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