“There’s another instinct, too,” he went on, “in a state of suppression, unless I’m very much mistaken; a child-expelling instinct. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. Let me keep you from that man’s clutches. Though he never seen so much of Miss Mary as I did. They had heard nothing, seen nothing. Burn your palette and your easel.
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