Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. Not MY affair. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. It was a bright and beautiful day: so bright, so beautiful, that even her sad heart was cheered by it. ’ ‘Do you indeed?’ rejoined the old lady, twinkling at him, and urging him towards the door.
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