He climbed to the crest of the sandhill and gazed about him. It seemed now to play itself, he and his fellow actors aiding it with their parts. Where was his boyhood now? Where was the soul that had hung back from her destiny, to brood alone upon the shame of her wounds and in her house of squalor and subterfuge to queen it in faded cerements and in wreaths that withered at the touch? Or where was he? He was alone. --Butter you up! said Brother Michael.
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