She perceived she had never really thought of any one but herself in all her acts and plans. “You and Anna,” she said, “seem to have stumbled upon a mare’s nest. The first circumstance that struck her on her arrival seemed ominous. ’ I don’t know what you’d call it —a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness. I love some one else. It’s these damned novels. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now.
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