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How I wept for the poor woman who had done nothing for me since she had married Mr Murdstone.
How I wept at their deaths, though was I secretly relieved they had both been written out of the story.
How I wept!
And for the last two years, every June, I reminisce about my uncle, and about the last time I saw him alive... about how he held my hand...about how we told each other "I love you"... about how I wept in his driveway, unable to drive back to work... and about how he had his arm around me on the biggest night of our young charity's existence.
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I also remember more than half a dozen times, racing to a local hospital emergency room, upon hearing from Richard or others, that he'd suffered (what he called) a mini-stroke---And how many times I wept with him as we both thought that was the end.
I wept when I remembered how often you and I Had tired the sun with talking, and sent him down the sky.
I wept to Val about how the women there hated me and gave me the worst tasks (I had to take the molds off the hot puddings — at the end of the first day my fingers were blistered), because I was only a student worker and because I took a book to read during my breaks.
I wept.
I wept and wept".
I wept for him.
I think I wept.
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Justyna Jupowicz-Kozak
CEO of Professional Science Editing for Scientists @ prosciediting.com