It was his heart. She pushed him gently on the chest. The likeness was ridiculous. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. I suppose I believe in God. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her.
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