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My mother, writing from France, admonished me to take care of my health as she had during the war. My head could be all set for the guillotine, and still my mother would scold me for forgetting my muffler. She never missed an opportunity to try and convince me that the world is a kindly place and that she’d done a good job in conceiving me. This alleged Providence was the great subterfuge of maternal thoughtlessness.
