"A mother's prayers—a mother's blessings," she cried, with the fervour almost of inspiration, "will avail against a fiend's malice. Looking for something, or someone, probably. It is magnificent indeed. “It really seems as if we shall have to put down marigolds altogether next year,” Aunt Molly repeated three times, “and do away with marguerites. Sooner or later we’ll certainly do something to clean those prisons you told me about—limewash the underside of life.
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