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belle Marguerite

My mother has gone home for a little while. Zee French woo-mahn, as her friends jokingly refer to her, moved in with me four months ago. She came here to die. Funny how plans go, non? Her less than six months to live prognosis has floated away on a gentle summer breeze. Six months has turned to seven, and soon it will be eight. As it turns out, she came here to live, not die. She has regained her strength and vitality, and even her sense of humor, while experiencing nary a symptom of her dreaded disease. Never one to...

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