Manning, in his entirely different dialect, indorsed her brother Roddy’s view of things. Daily contact with actual human beings all the more inclined her toward the imaginative. But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt. It seemed to encapsulate the mosquito like a little piece of moonlight, it was talismanic to her. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. She was always initiating petty breaches of discipline. ‘Only perhaps I can more readily do so if you will put down that pistol.
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