A wild passion of shame and self-disgust swept over her. It was finished by the end of that year, each character having asserted itself pronouncedly in my imagination. "My enemy," replied her son. I don’t want to bother you, of course. gutenberg. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror.
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