Her linen gown was soft against the heavy skins. This also struck her as odd. She cursed Satan and screamed at the heavens, praying to Mary frantically. She had flung away from her father’s support with the finest assumption of personal independence. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. .
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