So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. "Lady Trafford would not have thus condemned me!" cried Thames. . His literary instincts began to stir.
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