‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. Get the pole out of your ass. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered. To remove this obstacle it was necessary make an extensive breach in the wall. You bring me this grandfather, whom you know well I do not in the least wish to see, for I have told you so. I don’t care WHAT happens. That's a queer yarn.
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