" Her utterance was here choked by sobs. See!" she added, tearing the rag from her head,—"I had beautiful black hair once. I don’t idealize you. . , and munched a roll and butter with hearty appetite. Miss Mary to the life, I said, and so she is. She was afraid people would follow her, she was afraid of the dark, open doorways she passed, and afraid of the blazes of light; she was afraid to be alone, and she knew not what it was she feared.
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