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“MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison. Or perhaps my father once. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. ‘I don’t want him having an apoplexy in this house. “Sometimes it is not bad. I don't threaten idly, as you know. I should have gotten out of here months ago!” She opened the passenger side and reclined in the bucket seat.
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