The coffin was lowered into the grave, and the mourners departed. Her hair had begun to grow back, it now swept to her shoulders. ’ ‘Ah, the matter begins to come clear,’ Gerald said. "All the wonderful things it is going to do! If I could only know for certain that my mother knew how happy I'm going to be!" "You love the memory of your mother?" "It is a part of my blood … my beautiful mother!" He saw Enschede, putting out to sea, alone, memories and regrets crowding upon his wake. “Limp,” he answered. The blast once more swept over the agitated river: whirled off the sheets of foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the raging torrent blacker than before. If individuality means anything it means breaking bounds— adventure.
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