It was one of the secret troubles of her mind, this grotesque twist her ideas would sometimes take, as though they rebelled and rioted. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. When the paroxysm passed, he was forced to lean against the window-jamb for support.
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