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“Sure. He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. If only one might open the shutters and let in the light. "I have hurt you because I would not trust you. He daren't quarrel with me: and if he does, let him look to himself. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. Fresh flowers of loveliness have budded, expanded, died. The boy she had loved was gone. But before he suffered at Tyburn, he charged your mother to restore it.
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