‘I do not know how you think you may help me,’ she said slowly. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. When I think of it—” “But these are things I want to tell you now!” “I made a little song of it.
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