The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. ‘Ah, grandpére. \" Obediently, Lucia rose from her seated position on the bed and approached the baby and the mother in wonderment. ‘He’d have been that happy if he’d known how you’re the spit of her, miss. Sheila wouldn’t allow me to date a boy even if he was only fifteen—I mean sixteen, like I am, you see. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray.
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