As for this infatuation—it’s like some obsession, some magic thing laid upon you. It was Blueskin. Her impressions of this cardinal ceremony were rich and confused, complicated by a quite transitory passion that awakened no reciprocal fire for a fat curly headed cousin in black velveteen and a lace collar, who assisted as a page. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. He stood still, almost breathless.
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