Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. "I knew his poor mother, and for her sake I'll not see this done," cried John Dump. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. But at last this ordeal was over, and Ramage opened the door. She was so interested, and this was such a relief from the trudging anxiety of her search for work, that she went on for a whole week as if she was still living at home. Only a son’s another story. She felt she must fly before it and could no longer do so. “You needn’t be worried,” she said quietly.
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