"Come out!" roared Quilt, looking into the aperture. So absorbed was she by her passionate supplications that she was insensible to anything passing around her, until she felt a touch upon her shoulder, and heard a well-known voice breathe in her ear—"Mother!" She started at the sound as if an apparition had called her, screamed, and fell into her son's outstretched arms. “It’s my fault. It jars with all my ideas. . . . The rainstorm, short-lived, began to subside. She was, as Capes had said, a hard young woman.
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