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“Maybe we could swing a scholarship to Boston College for you, you know, with your violin and all. She may address me as “Grandfather” if she chooses, since I’m obliged to accept her in that capacity. “Can you come out tonight?” “Um, sure, I guess. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. “Time for my Patience,” she said. She was a lone white woman, therefore marked. “You are the most perfect, the most glorious of created things—tender, frank intellectual, brave, beautiful. "No, Sir, it's quite possible—more than possible. The agony on the sands now ceased to puzzle her. Do you have family that I should ask?” “Oh, Julian! No, my family is dead, lost.
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