She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. That is my real milieu, and one that I am convinced you would not only adorn but delight in. "Mother! dear mother!" cried Jack, folding her to his breast. He was all alone, too. For such of us as pretend to be wise—and we are but fools in a lesser degree—we know that humanity moves onward only by the impellant of fine dreams.
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