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Updated: May 19, 2025
No Christmas Eve was allowed to go by without the presence of alien offspring about their fire-lit hearth, and no strange little kiddie ever left for his own bed without treasuring in his soul the belief that he had seen Santa Claus at last had been kissed by him, too albeit the plain-faced, wistful little man with the funny bald-spot was in no sense up to the preconceived opinions of what the roly poly, white-whiskered, red- cheeked annual visitor from Lapland ought to be in order to make dreams come true.
Frank Nelsen could see Paul Hendricks' white-fringed bald-spot. "Go ahead open the door. Or are you still scared?" Nance challenged lightly. "No just anticipating," Nelsen gruffed. "And seeing if I can remember what's Out There ... Serene, bubb, Belt, Pallas..." He spoke the words like comic incantations, yet with a dash of reverence. "Superbia?" Nance teased.
His sandy, greyish hair which of late had been trained to lie quite sleek and precise across the widening bald-spot, was now in a state of wild disorder. It stood out "every which way," according to Melissa's subsequent description, and lent to his appearance an aspect of fierceness that was almost inconceivable.
With the instinctive tenderness which she always showed when she knew that she had hurt, Terry got up and went to him. She linked her arms about his neck and stooped to kiss the bald-spot on his head. "Cheer up, Daddy dear; it isn't half as bad as it sounded. Don't you want me to light your cigar for you?" Tabs, to distract attention from the reconciliation, addressed the General.
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