“I meant it. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact. ‘Say then, Jacques, you have followed him?’ she demanded of the blackgarbed footman. ‘What am I looking for?’ ‘A miniature.
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