| Sure she's unreasonable, Dadbut you have to stay with her; if there's to be any happiness in what's left of her life, it depends on you.
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| Prop me up, children, think of me, too. Shuffled, chained with her, bitter woman. No Haven, and the little money going. . . . How happy she looks, poor creature.
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The look of excitement. The straining to hear everything (the new hearing aid turned full). Why are you so happy, dying woman?
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How the petals are, fold on fold, and the gladioli color. The autumn air.
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Stranger grandsons, tall above the little gnome grandmother, the little spry grandfather. Paul in a frenzy of picture-taking before going.
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She, wandering the great house. Feeling the books; laughing at the maple shoemaker's bench of a hundred years ago used as a table. The ear turned to music.
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''Let us go home. See how good I walk now." "One step from the hospital," he answers, "and she wants to fly. Wait till Doctor Phil says."
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"Lookthe birds too are flying home. Very good Phil is and will not show it, but he is sick of sickness by the time he comes home."
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"Mrs. Telepathy, to read minds," he answers; "read mine what it says: when the trunks of medicines become a suitcase, then we will go."
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The grandboys, they do not know what to say to us. . . . Hannah, she runs around here, there, when is there time for herself?
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Let us go home. Let us go home.
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