Her hair was held back in a filigreed barrette. Wish SHE”—he indicated Miss Klegg’s back with a nod—“was at the bottom of the sea. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. "Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone. I was the black sheep, I was hurried out of the way.
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