She receded into the entryway, opening her palm and gesturing as if there were an imaginary red carpet rolled out for visitors. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. Kneebone's 346 XIV. ‘And take you this sword. The babies that the woman—your wife—refused to stop creating. .
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