The weeping Descartes took the day-old sickening snickering offspring of his drowned love to be wetnursed by a raven of the nearest citadel on a craggy heap of lost love, to say prayers to the soul of her mother.
The gravelly milk of her wet-nurse dried up when Edith was three, when the raven flew off to the Technological Institute of Wien to submit her thesis, depositing Edith on a passing wolf.
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