CHAPTER III
My childhood was a very dull one. I am hardly certain whether I remember my mother or not, for I was only about two years old when she died. By an effort it seems to me that I can recollect having been taken into a dark hushed room, where she was asleep—of having been lifted on a couch and made to kiss her. Her face was as white as marble, seemed quite as cold; so that the contact of my warm lips with that clammy flesh produced an indelible impression upon
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