But there was no sign from her. Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob. “But, my dear,” she began, “it is Impossible! It is quite out of the Question. But in between these wider phases of comparative confidence were gaps of disconcerting doubt, when the universe was presented as making sinister and threatening faces at her, defying her to defy, preparing a humiliating and shameful overthrow. She knew that to expect more now was like anticipating a gold-mine in the garden. Wood heard the cry. " "Entreat a fiddlestick!" retorted Mrs.
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