Yet she took with her an uneasy consciousness that in this affair might lie the germs of future trouble. She took up the poker and stirred the fire vigorously. It’s all very fine and all that, Vee, this freedom, but it isn’t going to work. It’s the rarest luck, the wildest, most impossible accident. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. . ’ ‘But you say that I was born here,’ objected Melusine. It was only by the adoption of such a course (especially since the late act of suppression, to which we have alluded,) that the inviolability of the asylum could be preserved.
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