This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. Oh, I’ve loved love, dear! I’ve loved love and you, and the glory of you; and the great time is over, and I have to go carefully and bear children, and—take care of my hair—and when I am done with that I shall be an old woman. I want to get away—to go to London. ‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask.
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