Then a handkerchief was thrown over the cage, to prevent the bird from singing; it was her favourite canary. Neither you nor your mother shall escape me. "The end is the most beautiful in English literature. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. As they careened into a parking space, Lucy clung to the upholstery so as not to be thrown against the front seats.
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