“Tiffany’s?” He looked at her comically. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. She felt she must fly before it and could no longer do so. When she occupied, it, it was neatness itself; the little porch was overrun with creepers—the garden trim and exquisitely kept. She started forward. ‘He destroyed the papers?’ ‘That’s right,’ Roding said, throwing her a glance of frowning surprise, as if he had not rated her intelligence so high. "Mother! dear mother!" cried Jack, folding her to his breast.
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