’ ‘Dear me. " It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. The theme was a masquerade. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. Jackson appears to do, it can't be very offensive to be told, that he's like him. “I wonder if they will seem altered,” she remarked for the third time. She has never done a really ignoble thing that I know of— never.
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