"That gown is getting shabby. Heaven forbid. I shouldn't care to have attention constantly drawn to us. “I don’t believe there is one. Just my room. They proved all sorts of things perhaps, but they were thick, unequal, pitiful pieces of work. Over the sea of heads arose a black and dismal object. The carpet was a quiet drugget and not excessively worn, and the bed in the corner was covered by a white quilt. There must be something, one feels, in ideas that achieve persistently a successful resurrection. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. Before a month has elapsed, your mother will be mine.
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