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Never had he thought of his mother as a person, a separate individual, with a apart from allowing or interfering with his own.
You can’t do the past over.
She was the third beer. Not the first one, which the throat receives with almost tearful gratitude; nor the second, that confirms and extends the pleasure of the first. But the third, the one you drink because it’s there, because it can’t hurt, and because what difference does it make?
