She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. Where even to be a Catholic, they say, is to be looked upon with scorn and disgust. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. You know how stubborn they get.
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