But she no longer obsessed over heresy, no longer did she feel cursed by God. ‘Dreadfully untidy, is it not? Can’t abide bare rooms. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. Oh, I’ve loved love, dear! I’ve loved love and you, and the glory of you; and the great time is over, and I have to go carefully and bear children, and—take care of my hair—and when I am done with that I shall be an old woman. She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. " "So am I. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. " "What right have you to suppose this, Sir?" demanded Trenchard, sternly.
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