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Later in his bewildered and almost ludicrous widowerhood tears would sometimes galumph down on his daughter's face as Henry rocked her of evenings and Sunday mornings. "Sweet-beautiful," came so absurdly from under his swiftly graying mustache, but often, when sure he was quite alone, he would say it over and over again. "Sweet-beautiful. Ann-Elizabeth. Sweet-beautiful. Ann-Elizabeth."
Or have you told me that just to spare me?" She could feel him stiffen, but when his voice came it was even. "Why, Ann, what a question! Haven't I told you so often how mother just peacefully passed on, holding a little pink you." Sweet-Beautiful his heart was tolling through a sense of panic Sweet-Beautiful. "I know, daddy, but before wasn't there any nerv any sickness?"
Emma Jett died holding her tight against her newly rich breasts, for a few of the most precious and most fleeting moments of her life. All her absurd fears washed away, her free hand could lie without spasm in Henry's, and it was as if she found in her last words a secret euphony that delighted her. "Ann-Elizabeth. Sweet-beautiful. Ann-Elizabeth. Sweet-beautiful."
"I won't be 'Annie. Please, daddy, I'm your Ann Elizabeth." "Ann Elizabeth, then. My Ann Elizabeth," an inner rhythm in him echoing: Sweet-Beautiful. Sweet-Beautiful. There was actually something of the lark about her.