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"Done!" cried Shotbolt. On reaching the churchyard, he perceived the melancholy procession descending the hill. ” She raised her eyebrows. The conversation which her entrance had interrupted began to buzz again all around her. He had fallen off when trying to tie down his aluminum paint ladder. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. He sat on the bed, throwing aside his hat.
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