I’m sorry to hurt your feelings. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. The Victorians over-did it a little, I admit. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy.
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