Nobody will ever know what the fleas thought. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. She wished she could steal his smiles and keep them in a box, they had always been so precious.
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