Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. She would be surrendering to all her impulses—particularly the good impulses—many of which society had condemned long since because they entailed too much trouble. For the past four weeks mirrors had been her delight, a new toy. Henceforth, I utterly throw off the yoke you have laid upon me. What do you say to Brighton——” Anna looked at him quietly—and he never finished his sentence. " "What proof have you that I am?"—was the return bolt. " "I'm not afraid, mother," said the little girl, smelling at the bouquet. We pretend we never think of everything that makes us what we are.
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