The light was poor, so that she saw their gleaming faces dimly and indistinctly. Our heads swim with the thought of being together. It is a lovely little appendage to the mother who smiles over it, and it does things quaintly like her, gestures with her very gestures. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. On the left lay the heights of Hampstead, studded with villas, while farther off a hazy cloud marked the position of the metropolis. ” She shook her head deliberately, hopelessly.
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