And probably the girl would wear herself out, too. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. Her fingers found the lump she sought and, with a little effort, she dragged out the black-wrapped foil. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance. ” Everything was good.
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