There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. I have always been lonely. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. She had eaten little or no tea, and her mid-day meal had been worse than nothing. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. .
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