Now tell them why. She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. She followed the landlady half way up-stairs, and called up to Ann Veronica, “May I come up? It’s me! You know—Nettie Miniver!” She appeared before Ann Veronica could clearly recall who Nettie Miniver might be. She could hardly remember his face except for his brown hair, thick lips, and narrow dark eyes. There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. He became primitive, literal in his conception; the ramifications were, for the nonce, fairly relegated to limbo.
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