Mother and Son XI. The flowers and turf, a wild strawberry, a rare butterfly, and suchlike little intimate things had become more interesting than mountains. As far as I can, I belong to them all. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. You know my fixed determination. ‘Parbleu,’ said Gerald. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it. The less she lived, in fact, the better.
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