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‘But you are idiot. Blue haze had settled beyond the black silhouettes of trees, graduating to the deep violet that began the night sky. “You are the most perfect, the most glorious of created things—tender, frank intellectual, brave, beautiful. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. Having read the three first verses of the impressive service appointed for the burial of the dead, he returned to the church, whither the coffin was carried through the south-western door, and placed in the centre of the aisle—Mr. Spurlock had not coached her on this line of conduct. “Why don’t you wear your white blouse more often? It is the prettiest shirt you own. Instead, he was bowing to her greataunt. And you, Austin; and you Langley, I say the same thing to you.
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