So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. Probably he will come around to-morrow and begin all over again. Everything in the world had changed for her. 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.
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