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CHAPTER XIX. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. Forgetting her occupation in her anger, she left off bathing Darrell's wrist; and, squeezing his arm so tightly that the boy winced with pain, she clapped her right hand upon her hip, and turned, with flashing eyes and an inflamed countenance, towards her crest-fallen spouse. They flash to and fro, they thrill us with expectancy.
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