She loved to be there, taking part in it all, breathing it, being it. As the body was borne to the house in the arms of the farming-men, Mr. (What was the name he had given her that day?) He was walking beside the chair upon which appeared to be a bundle of colours. “Go on,” he said. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered.
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