“Eight pounds,” she plunged, and added foolishly, “fifteen pounds will see me clear of everything. One day I can be a Gothic chick, and the next day I’ll be Hitler Youth. We’ll have some buttered toast. " But she did not complete the thought aloud. But here was new music, tender and kindly and whimsical, that first roved to and fro in the mind and then cuddled up in the heart.
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