ToC In an incredibly short space of time,—for her anxiety lent wings to her feet,— Mrs. ” They entered the place, a pleasant little café of the sort to be met with in the outlying parts of Paris. Around him were all the evidences of plenty. She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. That was the true miracle of the gift; without actual experience, to imagine love and hate and greed and how they would react upon each other; and then, when these passions had served their temporary purpose, to cast them aside for new imaginings. The drunken beachcombers; the one-sided education; the utter loneliness of a white child without playfellows, human or animal, without fairy stories, who for days was left alone while the father visited neighbouring islands, these pictures sank far below their actual importance. Books; an inexplicable hunger to be satisfied.
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