Passengers

The set of those eyes seemed formed by the habit of love. She had been many times a mother of children now widely scattered, but became at last too kind to follow them or make surrogates of theirs for a love that found its final and perfect form in being perfectly content to search each passenger's blunt face for the single quickening sign of the simple need to be recognized and cherished in that moment when love flows out, needing nothing but a returning glance to rest upon.

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