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Amory, Son of Beatrice

           Hecouldnotreconcilehimselftoherbeauty,thatwasmothertohisown,theexquisiteneckandshoulders,thegraceofafortunatewomanofthirty.

           "Amory,dear,"shecroonedsoftly,"Ihadsuchastrange,weirdtimeafterIleftyou."

           "Didyou,Beatrice?"

           "WhenIhadmylastbreakdown"shespokeofitasasturdy,gallantfeat.

           "Thedoctorstoldme"hervoicesangonaconfidentialnote"thatifanymanalivehaddonetheconsistentdrinkingthatIhave,hewouldhavebeenphysicallyshattered,mydear,andinhisgravelonginhisgrave."

           Amorywinced,andwonderedhowthiswouldhavesoundedtoFroggyParker.

           "Yes,"continuedBeatricetragically,"Ihaddreamswonderfulvisions."Shepressedthepalmsofherhandsintohereyes."Isawbronzeriverslappingmarbleshores,andgreatbirdsthatsoaredthroughtheair,parti-coloredbirdswithiridescentplumage.Iheardstrangemusicandtheflareofbarbarictrumpetswhat?"

           Amoryhadsnickered.

           "What,Amory?"

           "Isaidgoon,Beatrice."

           "Thatwasallitmerelyrecurredandrecurredgardensthatflauntedcoloringagainstwhichthiswouldbequitedull,moonsthatwhirledandswayed,palerthanwintermoons,moregoldenthanharvestmoons"

           "Areyouquitewellnow,Beatrice?"

           "QuitewellaswellasIwilleverbe.Iamnotunderstood,Amory.Iknowthatcan’texpressittoyou,Amory,butIamnotunderstood."

           Amorywasquitemoved.Heputhisarmaroundhismother,rubbinghisheadgentlyagainsthershoulder.

           "PoorBeatricepoorBeatrice."

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