As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. “I have a letter for you, and no end of messages. They smelled good, but they no longer smelled like food. "Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother.
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