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Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman. John picked it up and put it in her hands. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. "Come with me, my love, come—come," cried his mother, seizing his hand, and endeavouring to force him away. Now you will learn the result. The Lord have mercy upon you!" This ceremony concluded, the calvacade was again put in motion.
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