The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. She turned there, clasped her hands behind her back and put up her chin. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him. “Soon enough, John. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. He had fallen off when trying to tie down his aluminum paint ladder. There was nothing of the phenomenon in this.
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