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The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. "You are my prisoner. Things happen to women—proper women—and all they have to do is to take them well. We must wash out those stains up stairs, and burn the cloth. ’ She waved towards a handy table to one side which was piled high with so many volumes, it looked in imminent danger of crashing to the floor. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle.
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