The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal. A chill rain thrummed against the sides of John’s car, having slowed from deluge to steady patter, the snow was 158 dissolved where it lay. “Silly!” he remarked after a pause. “You must do more than think of it,” he urged. We had such a pride in you, such hope in you. "But—sapperment!—I wish they hadn't broken my pipe. "Then it's all over with us. I suppose I believe in God.
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