She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles. He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. "Well, Joan," said the benevolent mechanic, after he had looked at her steadfastly for a few moments, "what say you?—silence gives consent, eh?" Mrs. Then Gosse spoke again, answering the question in her mind. I was always told my mother died the day I was born. Love was joy, and joyous she was when alone.
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