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Updated: May 1, 2025
The mournful shake of the head was eloquently negative. "And yet you will not resume that life for which alone you were educated?" "I will not, and I cannot." "Well, you must either go on the highway or marry a fortune." "Look at this figure-head look at this scar. No no one will ever splice with such an old ravelled-out rope-yarn as Andrew Pigtop. The road is no longer a gentlemanly profession.
They always make me wretched." "Well, to realize all that, to feel the degradation of her nature, to lie, sick with exhaustion, on the broken slats of her bed under a ravelled-out travesty of a quilt, and get up morning after morning in an iron winter dark to experience that in your spirit and put it into durable metal, hard stone is to hold beauty in your hands."
"Mamma knows best," she whispered to Dinah, the black baby, with blue buttons for eyes and ravelled-out yarn for hair. "Mamma knows best, and I hope you are 'vinced of it." The sun had gone away from the step, and Flora was somewhat chilly, so she pinned the shawl tightly about Dinah and walked up and down the porch. "You don't know everything," she said, sharply, "because you ain't old enough.
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