Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world. "Do you hear me?" cried the lady, with increasing vehemence. “That thing’s going on,” she told herself. Wood. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. I can’t even make myself care.
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