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Updated: April 30, 2025
Hope the hope of hearing the patter of a child's feet about my house, the hope of pride in a quasi-paternity, of handing on, vicariously though it were, the torch of life hope was dead and it was buried in a little white coffin. Only a great, quiet love remained. I was a tired old man, and Carlotta was to me an infinitely loved sister or daughter or granddaughter even so old did I feel.
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