He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. 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. ‘Come, cry a truce. She had not made friends with any; so they still eyed her askance. Without hindrance—present occupation. In fact he was thinking of other things. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word.
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