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“Oh, you can act!” she cried. This is part of a dream— some evil fancy. For the present the desire to fly was gone. She was writhing to get her hands loose and found herself gasping with passionate violence, “It’s damnable!—damnable!” to the manifest disgust of the fatherly policeman on her right. He began to tell me something—and stopped. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other.
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