Mother—dear mother!" he added, clasping her in his arms, "Look at me again. ‘Eh bien, you are not like Leonardo. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp.
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