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Biarritz still retained its quiddity

My mother died when I was still an infant, so that I can only recall her as a vague patch of delicious lachrymal warmth just beyond the limit of iconographic memory.

heavily adumbrated, diamond-bright eye squinting like that of a timorous steed.

it is with something of a shudder that I recall the meretricious imitation she gave of reaching her vocal climax

When nowadays in some Russian household the gramophone is put on, and I hear her canned contralto