” His arms were around her. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. Capes?” she heard her aunt saying. It was red and chapped. It is not for myself I fear. You will torture yourself and torture her all through life; but in the end she will pour the wine of her faith into a sound chalice.
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