She could not make up her mind which was the finer, more elemental thing, which gave its values to the other. No matter how many books one read, each was different, as each human being was different. “Miss Pellissier, isn’t it?” he said. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. There’d only be endless rows if I was at home. ’ ‘Only a few minutes, miss.
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