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My mother rarely phoned, like Nan; she was more comfortable expressing her thoughts in a letter. She sounded upset and the line was very poor.
“Dar came home to see us,” she told me in between sobs. “I have embraced my son for the last time. Your poor father has taken him out for their final hunt together; he insists he must do it, but I know it will break his heart, but he wants Dar’s spirit to stay in his own country. My darling girl, it has been so long, and we were so glad to see him. They would have sung and danced their dreaming, for your father wanted him to talk about what he has done, and to try and understand it.” There was a prolonged silence as mother composed herself. “My darling Alkina, please sing to Dar’s spirit; you love him, as your father and I do.” My poor mother w
