It was cheating, pitiful cheating. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. And in those days, too, he used to help her mother with her gardening, and hover about her while she stood on the ladder and hammered creepers to the scullery wall. A woman’s shoe lay on the threadbare carpeting. A good woman’s mind has angels with flaming swords at the portals to keep out fallen thoughts.
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