In the pause a door could be heard opening and closing on the landing up-stairs. "She has, she has," said Jack, in a broken voice. Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings of the tempest, animating and directing its fury. She had once reconciled in her mind that she was happy as long as she had him. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting.
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