Until now none of her prayers had ever been answered. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. "I am your most unhappy son. His clothes were smartly pressed, his linen white, his jaws cleanly shaven; but the day would come when he would grow indifferent to bodily cleanliness. Either she had been seen, or they were seeking the air. He would raise her up once again, ply her with silks and jewels again, all of the accoutrements of the new generation: the cars, the toys, the restaurants, and the prestige.
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