She was acquiring truths, but in a series of shocks rather than by the process of analysis. There was a wall; she was always encountering it; the one time she was able to break through this wall was when the part in his hair was crooked. "Well, Joan," said the benevolent mechanic, after he had looked at her steadfastly for a few moments, "what say you?—silence gives consent, eh?" Mrs. 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.
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