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Updated: May 13, 2025
When she turned up the wick the rising flame carved Mamma's face out of the dusk. Her pretty face, delicately dinted, whitened with a powdery down; stained with faint bistres of age. Her little, high-bridged nose stood up from the softness, clear and young, firm as ivory. The globed light showed like a ball of fire, hung out in the garden, on the black, glassy darkness, behind the pane.
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