We think the whole thing is straight and noble at bottom, and it isn’t. He bowed awkwardly to Mrs. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. One cannot trust any man at all. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. How she had hated it!… All these mumblings which were never explained, which carried no more sense to her brain than they would have carried to Old Morgan's swearing parrot.
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