As her belly swelled, so did he. She taught him how to sail a proa, how to hack open a milk-coconut, how to relish bamboo sprouts. “Ssh!” said her mother, and then added, “A little natural feeling, dear. He closed the door. She sat down by the paperrack with a general feeling of resemblance to Vivie Warren, and looked through the Morning Post and Standard and Telegraph, and afterward the half-penny sheets. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. A granddaughter of mine!’ The idiocy of this notion stuck in his craw and he could think of nothing else for a moment.
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