Like a nightmare memory that returned again and again to haunt her. ‘I will not, if you will assure me that an imbecile is a better marriage prospect than a starving pig. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows. I had to sell out, you see, when my father died, for the estate is in my hands. She paused.
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