Her head rose. He thrust out a rhetorical hand. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. She came to her one day and pulled on her apron. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination. The sounds of the seashore infiltrated her dreams as she floated in heavenly bliss of sleep.
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