She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. “I am happy. ‘Don’t try to turn it off,’ ordered Miss Froxfield. 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. And she’s pluck to the backbone.
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