Like a nightmare memory that returned again and again to haunt her. “My father’s sisters used once to live in the old manor house. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. "Open my heart, Father of Mercy!" she murmured, in a humble tone, and with downcast looks, "and make me sensible of the error of my ways.
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