No one. We have only those phantoms called memories, which are the husks of dreams. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. A woman hard to read, who seemed to delight in keeping locked up behind that fascinating rigidity of feature the intense sensibility which had been revealed to him, her master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm. "Amazement!" cried Wild. Aunt Jane had her quiet moments.
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