She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. ‘R-rien. ’ ‘Well, don’t bite my head off,’ protested Mrs Sindlesham, clearly amused. “But I still think of my old foster brothers and sisters. Wood, now more buxom and more gorgeously arrayed than ever,—as well as a young and beautiful female, in whom he was at no loss to recognise the carpenter's daughter.
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