When they started getting on each other’s nerves, she blamed herself at first. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. God bless you, Auntie! I'll go into the mills and make pulp with my bare hands, if you want me to.
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