She could tell that they too would find their legs jutting awkwardly from the petite furniture. "And, oh! forgive me, though I can never forgive myself, for the misery I have caused you. Mrs. —'Why, hang every bailiff that sets a foot in your territories, and you're safe,' says I. She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. And now her mind was so full of the thought that she was in love—in love!—that marvellous state! that I really believe she had some dim idea of talking to him about it.
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