The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night. But she did not bother her head very much about her relations with these sympathizers. “No thanks, Cathy. Your mind is still subtly sick. “Forgive you, indeed. My son is going to build a spaceship to Mars someday right in this room. Perhaps, as you say, I do not really care—but I cannot do it.
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