Her lips came together with an expression between contentment and the faintest shadow of a smile, her manner was one of quiet reserve, and behind this mask she was wildly discontented and eager for freedom and life. Insulting cries became frequent and various, but for the most part she could not understand what was said. It towered up high above the level of the pass, thousands of feet, still, shining, and white, and below, thousands of feet below, was a floor of little woolly clouds. They bounced without merriment over bumpy Roman roads, and by the time they arrived she was extremely nauseous. There was no keeping Sheila from the truth, and it was better that anyone who lived under her roof knew it. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. I can keep you.
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