But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored. It had been her home for hundreds of years. The latter were saved; but of the former nothing but the blackened stone walls were found standing on the morrow. The guineas are not for serving your mistress. “My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting.
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