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throughout this preparation there had been a constant tremor in hepzibah's frame; an agitation so powerful that phoebe could see the quivering of her gaunt shadow, as thrown by the firelight on the kitchen wall, or by the sunshine on the parlor floor. its manifestations were so various, and agreed so little with one another, that the girl knew not what to make of it. sometimes it seemed an ecstasy of delight and happiness. at such moments, hepzibah would fling out her arms, and infold phoebe in them, and kiss her cheek as tenderly as ever her mother had; she appeared to do so by an inevitable impulse, and as if her bosom were oppressed with tenderness, of which she must needs pour out a little, in order to gain breathing-room. the next moment, without any visible cause for the change, her unwonted joy shrank back, appalled, as it were, and clothed itself in mourning; or it ran and hid itself, so to speak, in the dungeon of her heart, where it had long lain chained, while a cold, spectral sorrow took the place of the imprisoned joy, that was afraid to be enfranchised, --a sorrow as black as that was bright. she often broke into a little, nervous, hysteric laugh, more touching than any tears could be; and forthwith, as if to try which was the most touching, a gush of tears would follow; or perhaps the laughter and tears came both at once, and surrounded our poor hepzibah, in a moral sense, with a kind of pale, dim rainbow.

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wabbit season
jones_casey
cleaning up so well

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