She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. She had never been so happy to vomit. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered.
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