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Was there a “secret” at Bly—a mystery of Udolpho or an insane, an unmentionable relative kept in unsuspected confinement?
But she was a magnificent monument to the blessing of a want of imagination,
for the way in which a man pays his highest tribute to a woman is apt to be but by the more festal celebration of one of the sacred laws of his comfort;
“You leave him—?” “So long with Quint? Yes—I don’t mind that now.”
“No—only a few. Those I liked.”

