She could not judge its direction, and began to move swiftly along the bookshelves, her hand running behind her across the spines of the calfbound volumes. She was not a reversion to type, which intimates the primordial; she suggested rather the incarnation of some goddess of the South Seas. Prison was beastly. But when all was over, a sorrowful calm succeeded, and, if not free from grief, she was tranquil. Of course, at home there would have been questions.
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