Michelle's home was one of the smaller palaces, made solidly of red brick with charming black shutters and window boxes full of drooping violets. She had thought it a mirror, because it was her. "My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring. There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp black leather—the Holy Bible. I will tell you our plans on the way to the station.
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