The lady whose husband had been Mayor of Hartlepool looked at Anna and sniffed. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. "And now, to your own concerns. It’s one of our conventional superstitions. "Open my heart, Father of Mercy!" she murmured, in a humble tone, and with downcast looks, "and make me sensible of the error of my ways.
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