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“She’s my wife,” the man muttered. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. "My child! my child!" exclaimed Mrs. E. Puffy blue curtains dressed every oakstained window. 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.
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