“do you remember the lake?” she said, in an abrupt voice, under the pressure of an emotion which caught her hear, made the muscles of her throat stiff, and contracted her lips in a spasm as she said “lake.” For she was a child, throwing bread to the ducks, between her parents, and at the same time a grown woman coming to her parents who stood by the lake, holding her life in her arms which, as she neared them, grew larger and larger in her arms, until it became a whole life, a complete life, which she put down by them and said, “this is what I have made of it! this!” and what had she made of it? what, indeed? sitting there sewing this morning with Peter.

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