What lends a tragic mockery to all these tender traps of hers was that she was within lawful bounds. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. “MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison. All that he had sown that afternoon with such infinite care was as nothing compared to this seed, cast without forethought.
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