Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. "You thank Heaven for the escape of the man who did his best to get your child's neck twisted. Wasn’t easy, I can tell you. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha.
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