She looked down tassels of his shiny shoes with a scowl. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. If she has no children, she goes on loving her husband; but he is no longer a man but a child. But a little daughter is one thing and a daughter quite another. 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. I'll remember that. She leaves me almost without comparisons.
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