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The apartment they entered was large and square, and contained the regulation chairs, table, and silver and crystal loaded sideboard. Upon the mantel-piece, the unflickering light from a waxen taper burning in a glass of oil lent an unusual air of Sabbath quiet to the room. "I have 'Yahrzeit' for my mother," explained Jo Lewis, glancing toward the taper after greeting his visitors.
She had told herself that she would observe the first anniversary of her mother's death with none of those ancient customs by which your pious Jew honors his dead. There would be no Yahrzeit light burning for twenty-four hours. She would not go to Temple for Kaddish prayer. But the thing was too strong for her, too anciently inbred. Her ancestors would have lighted a candle, or an oil lamp.
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