"Oliver," said my father urgently, "I want to help.""Jenny's dead," I told him.
"I'm sorry," he said in a stunned whispered.
Not knowing why, I repeated what I had long ago learned from the beautifl girl now dead.
"Love means not ever having to say're sorry."
And then I did what I had never done in his presence, much less in his arms. I cried.
Read an except of Love Story.
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