"Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind. This is clear over my head. I was the black sheep, I was hurried out of the way. He took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere. She had been so busy with life that, for a vast gulf of time, as it seemed, she had given no thought to those ancient, imagined things of her childhood.
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