And I get myself dirty. ’ ‘Pottiswick, you mean, miss?’ ‘Yes, yes. It was only a few months ago that I told you you must come to London, and you only laughed at me. I knew it was in vain to cry 'murder!' in the Mint, so I had recourse to stratagem. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books.
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