The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. He certainly bore inspection. In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. But finding his hints totally disregarded, he, at length, swaggered up to the table, and thrust in a chair. She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. The satisfaction of cheating Death again. “That’s it,” she said.
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