After partaking of some little refreshment, and changing her attire, Mrs. Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. All of us were fussy, colicky babies from what she tells me.
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