On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Her stomach growled, and she clutched at it in reaction, haphazardly observing that the gown had been changed to silk. We are the species, and maternity is our game; that’s all right, but nobody wants that admitted for fear we should all catch fire, and set about fulfilling the purpose of our beings without waiting for further explanations.
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