The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. But this time she wanted nothing for herself: she wanted something for Hoddy—success. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. ‘Sergeant Trodger is who I am.
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