“Your mother was a Gypsy. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. There was so much to see, so much to do, that he became what he had once been normally, a lovable boy. I’m making a mess of my life— unless you come in and take it. \" He took his milk and cookies to bed. I am the cause of his ill-usage. Sheppard. " "To be opened in case of my death," added Spurlock.
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