It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. This formidable person, who was no other than the renowned Figg, the "Atlas of the sword," as he is termed by Captain Godfrey, had removed his hat and "skull covering," and was wiping the heat from his bepatched and closeshaven pate. Don’t think it was anything better than fever—or a bit beautiful. ‘You’re either mad, or in love. “Think of the mockery!” she said. The stags and oxen and things all have to fight for us, everywhere.
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