" "It is shut," said Mrs. Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. “I hope you have not come for that. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. ‘Here she is. And it has been well for you that he imagines the child was drowned.
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