So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. Every drop of blood in her body glowed and expanded. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. She knew Martha would not ask anything that she did not wish to know.
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