The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. It was warm, shielding, comforting, and what was more, full of understanding. Before her was a great Gothic portal. Borne in the arms of a couple of assistants, and preceded by Mrs. Anything that drew attention to her must be avoided. And in those days, too, he used to help her mother with her gardening, and hover about her while she stood on the ladder and hammered creepers to the scullery wall.
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