He’ll survive. That’s as far as we go. Shari’s head poked out of the bathroom where she had been preoccupied with preparations for her morning shower. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. She peered into the darkness. Mrs.
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