It was as if the Devil himself had raped and defiled her mother. Forgetting her occupation in her anger, she left off bathing Darrell's wrist; and, squeezing his arm so tightly that the boy winced with pain, she clapped her right hand upon her hip, and turned, with flashing eyes and an inflamed countenance, towards her crest-fallen spouse. “What’s wrong?” He asked as she shifted awkwardly. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait.
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