An inarticulate instinct which now found expression. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. Fire; she was full of it. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. Above her head was an aura of white fire.
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