Something about this woman rather reminds me of our hostess. Mrs Sindlesham’s wrinkled cheek had paled, and her eyes were fixed upon Gerald in a look that wrung his heart. ‘I wish you joy of the wench. “Heavens, look at the time!” she exclaimed. She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. It occurred to her that it was absurd and wrong to be so continuously thinking of one engrossing topic, and she made a strenuous effort to force her mind to other questions.
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