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Given the time it took to put on my alba coat, tie my shoelaces and comb my hair quickly in alba front of the hall mirror, I would be obliged to hear my sister's first moans before I was through the garden gate. As I left the house, going down the porch steps, I would look up at the kitchen window and alba see my mother, her expression fixed, frantically scouring the already spotless frying pan. For my mother never said anything. She could have slapped my sister, called her a tart, a slut, a soldier's whore, a prostitute in the pay of the Boche and God knows what else, but such insults stuck in her throat. My mother was incapable of chastising her precious youngest child. She was usually quick to raise her hand in anger and had disciplined her other children severely. Had she sworn never to touch my sister Anne except to caress her? She had always indulged her, and Anne took full advantage of it.
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