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It wasn’t only world events that had brought Ada to this period of her art. The early part of 1941 had also brought personal sadness to her from the far distance. In April she received a letter from her Aunt Martha informing her that her father, the Reverend Henry Albin, had died peacefully while taking a nap on a Sunday afternoon, after having given a rousing sermon to a handful of parishioners in his Natoma, Kansas, weather-beaten wooden church. Ada mourned the news, but she didn’t mourn the loss of her father so much as she mourned her father’s life—the life he’d never really had, the life he had denied himself. She had hardly kept in touch with him after she had left his side, learning of his activities—or lack of them—from Aunt Martha. And now all she could feel for him was the sadness of what had never existed between them—or for him. The Reverend Albin had lived to be eighty-eight. Ada, who had always been told her dominate characteristics came from her father’s side, could. Allow the hard-on while staring at the screen, just imagining circling my tongue in her pussy.Let me describe myself first before getting to her.Age
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