<p><SPAN name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"></SPAN></p>
<h2> Chapter XV </h2>
<h3> The Two Bed-Chambers </h3>
<p>HETTY and Dinah both slept in the second story, in rooms adjoining each
other, meagrely furnished rooms, with no blinds to shut out the light,
which was now beginning to gather new strength from the rising of the moon—more
than enough strength to enable Hetty to move about and undress with
perfect comfort. She could see quite well the pegs in the old painted
linen-press on which she hung her hat and gown; she could see the head of
every pin on her red cloth pin-cushion; she could see a reflection of
herself in the old-fashioned looking-glass, quite as distinct as was
needful, considering that she had only to brush her hair and put on her
night-cap. A queer old looking-glass! Hetty got into an ill temper with it
almost every time she dressed. It had been considered a handsome glass in
its day, and had probably been bought into the Poyser family a quarter of
a century before, at a sale of genteel household furniture. Even now an
auctioneer could say something for it: it had a great deal of tarnished
gilding about it; it had a firm mahogany base, well supplied with drawers,
which opened with a decided jerk and sent the contents leaping out from
the farthest corners, without giving you the trouble of reaching them;
above all, it had a brass candle-socket on each side, which would give it
an aristocratic air to the very last. But Hetty objected to it because it
had numerous dim blotches sprinkled over the mirror, which no rubbing
would remove, and because, instead of swinging backwards and forwards, it
was fixed in an upright position, so that she could only get one good view
of her head and neck, and that was to be had only by sitting down on a low
chair before her dressing-table. And the dressing-table was no
dressing-table at all, but a small old chest of drawers, the most awkward
thing in the world to sit down before, for the big brass handles quite
hurt her knees, and she couldn't get near the glass at all comfortably.
But devout worshippers never allow inconveniences to prevent them from
performing their religious rites, and Hetty this evening was more bent on
her peculiar form of worship than usual.</p>
<p>Having taken off her gown and white kerchief, she drew a key from the
large pocket that hung outside her petticoat, and, unlocking one of the
lower drawers in the chest, reached from it two short bits of wax candle—secretly
bought at Treddleston—and stuck them in the two brass sockets. Then
she drew forth a bundle of matches and lighted the candles; and last of
all, a small red-framed shilling looking-glass, without blotches. It was
into this small glass that she chose to look first after seating herself.
She looked into it, smiling and turning her head on one side, for a
minute, then laid it down and took out her brush and comb from an upper
drawer. She was going to let down her hair, and make herself look like
that picture of a lady in Miss Lydia Donnithorne's dressing-room. It was
soon done, and the dark hyacinthine curves fell on her neck. It was not
heavy, massive, merely rippling hair, but soft and silken, running at
every opportunity into delicate rings. But she pushed it all backward to
look like the picture, and form a dark curtain, throwing into relief her
round white neck. Then she put down her brush and comb and looked at
herself, folding her arms before her, still like the picture. Even the old
mottled glass couldn't help sending back a lovely image, none the less
lovely because Hetty's stays were not of white satin—such as I feel
sure heroines must generally wear—but of a dark greenish cotton
texture.</p>
<p>Oh yes! She was very pretty. Captain Donnithorne thought so. Prettier than
anybody about Hayslope—prettier than any of the ladies she had ever
seen visiting at the Chase—indeed it seemed fine ladies were rather
old and ugly—and prettier than Miss Bacon, the miller's daughter,
who was called the beauty of Treddleston. And Hetty looked at herself
to-night with quite a different sensation from what she had ever felt
before; there was an invisible spectator whose eye rested on her like
morning on the flowers. His soft voice was saying over and over again
those pretty things she had heard in the wood; his arm was round her, and
the delicate rose-scent of his hair was with her still. The vainest woman
is never thoroughly conscious of her own beauty till she is loved by the
man who sets her own passion vibrating in return.</p>
<p>But Hetty seemed to have made up her mind that something was wanting, for
she got up and reached an old black lace scarf out of the linen-press, and
a pair of large ear-rings out of the sacred drawer from which she had
taken her candles. It was an old old scarf, full of rents, but it would
make a becoming border round her shoulders, and set off the whiteness of
her upper arm. And she would take out the little ear-rings she had in her
ears—oh, how her aunt had scolded her for having her ears bored!—and
put in those large ones. They were but coloured glass and gilding, but if
you didn't know what they were made of, they looked just as well as what
the ladies wore. And so she sat down again, with the large ear-rings in
her ears, and the black lace scarf adjusted round her shoulders. She
looked down at her arms: no arms could be prettier down to a little way
below the elbow—they were white and plump, and dimpled to match her
cheeks; but towards the wrist, she thought with vexation that they were
coarsened by butter-making and other work that ladies never did.</p>
<p>Captain Donnithorne couldn't like her to go on doing work: he would like
to see her in nice clothes, and thin shoes, and white stockings, perhaps
with silk clocks to them; for he must love her very much—no one else
had ever put his arm round her and kissed her in that way. He would want
to marry her and make a lady of her; she could hardly dare to shape the
thought—yet how else could it be? Marry her quite secretly, as Mr.
James, the doctor's assistant, married the doctor's niece, and nobody ever
found it out for a long while after, and then it was of no use to be
angry. The doctor had told her aunt all about it in Hetty's hearing. She
didn't know how it would be, but it was quite plain the old Squire could
never be told anything about it, for Hetty was ready to faint with awe and
fright if she came across him at the Chase. He might have been earth-born,
for what she knew. It had never entered her mind that he had been young
like other men; he had always been the old Squire at whom everybody was
frightened. Oh, it was impossible to think how it would be! But Captain
Donnithorne would know; he was a great gentleman, and could have his way
in everything, and could buy everything he liked. And nothing could be as
it had been again: perhaps some day she should be a grand lady, and ride
in her coach, and dress for dinner in a brocaded silk, with feathers in
her hair, and her dress sweeping the ground, like Miss Lydia and Lady
Dacey, when she saw them going into the dining-room one evening as she
peeped through the little round window in the lobby; only she should not
be old and ugly like Miss Lydia, or all the same thickness like Lady
Dacey, but very pretty, with her hair done in a great many different ways,
and sometimes in a pink dress, and sometimes in a white one—she
didn't know which she liked best; and Mary Burge and everybody would
perhaps see her going out in her carriage—or rather, they would HEAR
of it: it was impossible to imagine these things happening at Hayslope in
sight of her aunt. At the thought of all this splendour, Hetty got up from
her chair, and in doing so caught the little red-framed glass with the
edge of her scarf, so that it fell with a bang on the floor; but she was
too eagerly occupied with her vision to care about picking it up; and
after a momentary start, began to pace with a pigeon-like stateliness
backwards and forwards along her room, in her coloured stays and coloured
skirt, and the old black lace scarf round her shoulders, and the great
glass ear-rings in her ears.</p>
<p>How pretty the little puss looks in that odd dress! It would be the
easiest folly in the world to fall in love with her: there is such a sweet
babylike roundness about her face and figure; the delicate dark rings of
hair lie so charmingly about her ears and neck; her great dark eyes with
their long eye-lashes touch one so strangely, as if an imprisoned frisky
sprite looked out of them.</p>
<p>Ah, what a prize the man gets who wins a sweet bride like Hetty! How the
men envy him who come to the wedding breakfast, and see her hanging on his
arm in her white lace and orange blossoms. The dear, young, round, soft,
flexible thing! Her heart must be just as soft, her temper just as free
from angles, her character just as pliant. If anything ever goes wrong, it
must be the husband's fault there: he can make her what he likes—that
is plain. And the lover himself thinks so too: the little darling is so
fond of him, her little vanities are so bewitching, he wouldn't consent to
her being a bit wiser; those kittenlike glances and movements are just
what one wants to make one's hearth a paradise. Every man under such
circumstances is conscious of being a great physiognomist. Nature, he
knows, has a language of her own, which she uses with strict veracity, and
he considers himself an adept in the language. Nature has written out his
bride's character for him in those exquisite lines of cheek and lip and
chin, in those eyelids delicate as petals, in those long lashes curled
like the stamen of a flower, in the dark liquid depths of those wonderful
eyes. How she will dote on her children! She is almost a child herself,
and the little pink round things will hang about her like florets round
the central flower; and the husband will look on, smiling benignly, able,
whenever he chooses, to withdraw into the sanctuary of his wisdom, towards
which his sweet wife will look reverently, and never lift the curtain. It
is a marriage such as they made in the golden age, when the men were all
wise and majestic and the women all lovely and loving.</p>
<p>It was very much in this way that our friend Adam Bede thought about
Hetty; only he put his thoughts into different words. If ever she behaved
with cold vanity towards him, he said to himself it is only because she
doesn't love me well enough; and he was sure that her love, whenever she
gave it, would be the most precious thing a man could possess on earth.
Before you despise Adam as deficient in penetration, pray ask yourself if
you were ever predisposed to believe evil of any pretty woman—if you
ever COULD, without hard head-breaking demonstration, believe evil of the
ONE supremely pretty woman who has bewitched you. No: people who love
downy peaches are apt not to think of the stone, and sometimes jar their
teeth terribly against it.</p>
<p>Arthur Donnithorne, too, had the same sort of notion about Hetty, so far
as he had thought of her nature of all. He felt sure she was a dear,
affectionate, good little thing. The man who awakes the wondering
tremulous passion of a young girl always thinks her affectionate; and if
he chances to look forward to future years, probably imagines himself
being virtuously tender to her, because the poor thing is so clingingly
fond of him. God made these dear women so—and it is a convenient
arrangement in case of sickness.</p>
<p>After all, I believe the wisest of us must be beguiled in this way
sometimes, and must think both better and worse of people than they
deserve. Nature has her language, and she is not unveracious; but we don't
know all the intricacies of her syntax just yet, and in a hasty reading we
may happen to extract the very opposite of her real meaning. Long dark
eyelashes, now—what can be more exquisite? I find it impossible not
to expect some depth of soul behind a deep grey eye with a long dark
eyelash, in spite of an experience which has shown me that they may go
along with deceit, peculation, and stupidity. But if, in the reaction of
disgust, I have betaken myself to a fishy eye, there has been a surprising
similarity of result. One begins to suspect at length that there is no
direct correlation between eyelashes and morals; or else, that the
eyelashes express the disposition of the fair one's grandmother, which is
on the whole less important to us.</p>
<p>No eyelashes could be more beautiful than Hetty's; and now, while she
walks with her pigeon-like stateliness along the room and looks down on
her shoulders bordered by the old black lace, the dark fringe shows to
perfection on her pink cheek. They are but dim ill-defined pictures that
her narrow bit of an imagination can make of the future; but of every
picture she is the central figure in fine clothes; Captain Donnithorne is
very close to her, putting his arm round her, perhaps kissing her, and
everybody else is admiring and envying her—especially Mary Burge,
whose new print dress looks very contemptible by the side of Hetty's
resplendent toilette. Does any sweet or sad memory mingle with this dream
of the future—any loving thought of her second parents—of the
children she had helped to tend—of any youthful companion, any pet
animal, any relic of her own childhood even? Not one. There are some
plants that have hardly any roots: you may tear them from their native
nook of rock or wall, and just lay them over your ornamental flower-pot,
and they blossom none the worse. Hetty could have cast all her past life
behind her and never cared to be reminded of it again. I think she had no
feeling at all towards the old house, and did not like the Jacob's Ladder
and the long row of hollyhocks in the garden better than other flowers—perhaps
not so well. It was wonderful how little she seemed to care about waiting
on her uncle, who had been a good father to her—she hardly ever
remembered to reach him his pipe at the right time without being told,
unless a visitor happened to be there, who would have a better opportunity
of seeing her as she walked across the hearth. Hetty did not understand
how anybody could be very fond of middle-aged people. And as for those
tiresome children, Marty and Tommy and Totty, they had been the very
nuisance of her life—as bad as buzzing insects that will come
teasing you on a hot day when you want to be quiet. Marty, the eldest, was
a baby when she first came to the farm, for the children born before him
had died, and so Hetty had had them all three, one after the other,
toddling by her side in the meadow, or playing about her on wet days in
the half-empty rooms of the large old house. The boys were out of hand
now, but Totty was still a day-long plague, worse than either of the
others had been, because there was more fuss made about her. And there was
no end to the making and mending of clothes. Hetty would have been glad to
hear that she should never see a child again; they were worse than the
nasty little lambs that the shepherd was always bringing in to be taken
special care of in lambing time; for the lambs WERE got rid of sooner or
later. As for the young chickens and turkeys, Hetty would have hated the
very word "hatching," if her aunt had not bribed her to attend to the
young poultry by promising her the proceeds of one out of every brood. The
round downy chicks peeping out from under their mother's wing never
touched Hetty with any pleasure; that was not the sort of prettiness she
cared about, but she did care about the prettiness of the new things she
would buy for herself at Treddleston Fair with the money they fetched. And
yet she looked so dimpled, so charming, as she stooped down to put the
soaked bread under the hen-coop, that you must have been a very acute
personage indeed to suspect her of that hardness. Molly, the housemaid,
with a turn-up nose and a protuberant jaw, was really a tender-hearted
girl, and, as Mrs. Poyser said, a jewel to look after the poultry; but her
stolid face showed nothing of this maternal delight, any more than a brown
earthenware pitcher will show the light of the lamp within it.</p>
<p>It is generally a feminine eye that first detects the moral deficiencies
hidden under the "dear deceit" of beauty, so it is not surprising that
Mrs. Poyser, with her keenness and abundant opportunity for observation,
should have formed a tolerably fair estimate of what might be expected
from Hetty in the way of feeling, and in moments of indignation she had
sometimes spoken with great openness on the subject to her husband.</p>
<p>"She's no better than a peacock, as 'ud strut about on the wall and spread
its tail when the sun shone if all the folks i' the parish was dying:
there's nothing seems to give her a turn i' th' inside, not even when we
thought Totty had tumbled into the pit. To think o' that dear cherub! And
we found her wi' her little shoes stuck i' the mud an' crying fit to break
her heart by the far horse-pit. But Hetty never minded it, I could see,
though she's been at the nussin' o' the child ever since it was a babby.
It's my belief her heart's as hard as a pebble."</p>
<p>"Nay, nay," said Mr. Poyser, "thee mustn't judge Hetty too hard. Them
young gells are like the unripe grain; they'll make good meal by and by,
but they're squashy as yet. Thee't see Hetty 'll be all right when she's
got a good husband and children of her own."</p>
<p>"I don't want to be hard upo' the gell. She's got cliver fingers of her
own, and can be useful enough when she likes and I should miss her wi' the
butter, for she's got a cool hand. An' let be what may, I'd strive to do
my part by a niece o' yours—an' THAT I've done, for I've taught her
everything as belongs to a house, an' I've told her her duty often enough,
though, God knows, I've no breath to spare, an' that catchin' pain comes
on dreadful by times. Wi' them three gells in the house I'd need have
twice the strength to keep 'em up to their work. It's like having roast
meat at three fires; as soon as you've basted one, another's burnin'."</p>
<p>Hetty stood sufficiently in awe of her aunt to be anxious to conceal from
her so much of her vanity as could be hidden without too great a
sacrifice. She could not resist spending her money in bits of finery which
Mrs. Poyser disapproved; but she would have been ready to die with shame,
vexation, and fright if her aunt had this moment opened the door, and seen
her with her bits of candle lighted, and strutting about decked in her
scarf and ear-rings. To prevent such a surprise, she always bolted her
door, and she had not forgotten to do so to-night. It was well: for there
now came a light tap, and Hetty, with a leaping heart, rushed to blow out
the candles and throw them into the drawer. She dared not stay to take out
her ear-rings, but she threw off her scarf, and let it fall on the floor,
before the light tap came again. We shall know how it was that the light
tap came, if we leave Hetty for a short time and return to Dinah, at the
moment when she had delivered Totty to her mother's arms, and was come
upstairs to her bedroom, adjoining Hetty's.</p>
<p>Dinah delighted in her bedroom window. Being on the second story of that
tall house, it gave her a wide view over the fields. The thickness of the
wall formed a broad step about a yard below the window, where she could
place her chair. And now the first thing she did on entering her room was
to seat herself in this chair and look out on the peaceful fields beyond
which the large moon was rising, just above the hedgerow elms. She liked
the pasture best where the milch cows were lying, and next to that the
meadow where the grass was half-mown, and lay in silvered sweeping lines.
Her heart was very full, for there was to be only one more night on which
she would look out on those fields for a long time to come; but she
thought little of leaving the mere scene, for, to her, bleak Snowfield had
just as many charms. She thought of all the dear people whom she had
learned to care for among these peaceful fields, and who would now have a
place in her loving remembrance for ever. She thought of the struggles and
the weariness that might lie before them in the rest of their life's
journey, when she would be away from them, and know nothing of what was
befalling them; and the pressure of this thought soon became too strong
for her to enjoy the unresponding stillness of the moonlit fields. She
closed her eyes, that she might feel more intensely the presence of a Love
and Sympathy deeper and more tender than was breathed from the earth and
sky. That was often Dinah's mode of praying in solitude. Simply to close
her eyes and to feel herself enclosed by the Divine Presence; then
gradually her fears, her yearning anxieties for others, melted away like
ice-crystals in a warm ocean. She had sat in this way perfectly still,
with her hands crossed on her lap and the pale light resting on her calm
face, for at least ten minutes when she was startled by a loud sound,
apparently of something falling in Hetty's room. But like all sounds that
fall on our ears in a state of abstraction, it had no distinct character,
but was simply loud and startling, so that she felt uncertain whether she
had interpreted it rightly. She rose and listened, but all was quiet
afterwards, and she reflected that Hetty might merely have knocked
something down in getting into bed. She began slowly to undress; but now,
owing to the suggestions of this sound, her thoughts became concentrated
on Hetty—that sweet young thing, with life and all its trials before
her—the solemn daily duties of the wife and mother—and her
mind so unprepared for them all, bent merely on little foolish, selfish
pleasures, like a child hugging its toys in the beginning of a long
toilsome journey in which it will have to bear hunger and cold and
unsheltered darkness. Dinah felt a double care for Hetty, because she
shared Seth's anxious interest in his brother's lot, and she had not come
to the conclusion that Hetty did not love Adam well enough to marry him.
She saw too clearly the absence of any warm, self-devoting love in Hetty's
nature to regard the coldness of her behaviour towards Adam as any
indication that he was not the man she would like to have for a husband.
And this blank in Hetty's nature, instead of exciting Dinah's dislike,
only touched her with a deeper pity: the lovely face and form affected her
as beauty always affects a pure and tender mind, free from selfish
jealousies. It was an excellent divine gift, that gave a deeper pathos to
the need, the sin, the sorrow with which it was mingled, as the canker in
a lily-white bud is more grievous to behold than in a common pot-herb.</p>
<p>By the time Dinah had undressed and put on her night-gown, this feeling
about Hetty had gathered a painful intensity; her imagination had created
a thorny thicket of sin and sorrow, in which she saw the poor thing
struggling torn and bleeding, looking with tears for rescue and finding
none. It was in this way that Dinah's imagination and sympathy acted and
reacted habitually, each heightening the other. She felt a deep longing to
go now and pour into Hetty's ear all the words of tender warning and
appeal that rushed into her mind. But perhaps Hetty was already asleep.
Dinah put her ear to the partition and heard still some slight noises,
which convinced her that Hetty was not yet in bed. Still she hesitated;
she was not quite certain of a divine direction; the voice that told her
to go to Hetty seemed no stronger that the other voice which said that
Hetty was weary, and that going to her now in an unseasonable moment would
only tend to close her heart more obstinately. Dinah was not satisfied
without a more unmistakable guidance than those inward voices. There was
light enough for her, if she opened her Bible, to discern the text
sufficiently to know what it would say to her. She knew the physiognomy of
every page, and could tell on what book she opened, sometimes on what
chapter, without seeing title or number. It was a small thick Bible, worn
quite round at the edges. Dinah laid it sideways on the window ledge,
where the light was strongest, and then opened it with her forefinger. The
first words she looked at were those at the top of the left-hand page:
"And they all wept sore, and fell on Paul's neck and kissed him." That was
enough for Dinah; she had opened on that memorable parting at Ephesus,
when Paul had felt bound to open his heart in a last exhortation and
warning. She hesitated no longer, but, opening her own door gently, went
and tapped on Hetty's. We know she had to tap twice, because Hetty had to
put out her candles and throw off her black lace scarf; but after the
second tap the door was opened immediately. Dinah said, "Will you let me
come in, Hetty?" and Hetty, without speaking, for she was confused and
vexed, opened the door wider and let her in.</p>
<p>What a strange contrast the two figures made, visible enough in that
mingled twilight and moonlight! Hetty, her cheeks flushed and her eyes
glistening from her imaginary drama, her beautiful neck and arms bare, her
hair hanging in a curly tangle down her back, and the baubles in her ears.
Dinah, covered with her long white dress, her pale face full of subdued
emotion, almost like a lovely corpse into which the soul has returned
charged with sublimer secrets and a sublimer love. They were nearly of the
same height; Dinah evidently a little the taller as she put her arm round
Hetty's waist and kissed her forehead.</p>
<p>"I knew you were not in bed, my dear," she said, in her sweet clear voice,
which was irritating to Hetty, mingling with her own peevish vexation like
music with jangling chains, "for I heard you moving; and I longed to speak
to you again to-night, for it is the last but one that I shall be here,
and we don't know what may happen to-morrow to keep us apart. Shall I sit
down with you while you do up your hair?"</p>
<p>"Oh yes," said Hetty, hastily turning round and reaching the second chair
in the room, glad that Dinah looked as if she did not notice her
ear-rings.</p>
<p>Dinah sat down, and Hetty began to brush together her hair before twisting
it up, doing it with that air of excessive indifference which belongs to
confused self-consciousness. But the expression of Dinah's eyes gradually
relieved her; they seemed unobservant of all details.</p>
<p>"Dear Hetty," she said, "It has been borne in upon my mind to-night that
you may some day be in trouble—trouble is appointed for us all here
below, and there comes a time when we need more comfort and help than the
things of this life can give. I want to tell you that if ever you are in
trouble, and need a friend that will always feel for you and love you, you
have got that friend in Dinah Morris at Snowfield, and if you come to her,
or send for her, she'll never forget this night and the words she is
speaking to you now. Will you remember it, Hetty?"</p>
<p>"Yes," said Hetty, rather frightened. "But why should you think I shall be
in trouble? Do you know of anything?"</p>
<p>Hetty had seated herself as she tied on her cap, and now Dinah leaned
forwards and took her hands as she answered, "Because, dear, trouble comes
to us all in this life: we set our hearts on things which it isn't God's
will for us to have, and then we go sorrowing; the people we love are
taken from us, and we can joy in nothing because they are not with us;
sickness comes, and we faint under the burden of our feeble bodies; we go
astray and do wrong, and bring ourselves into trouble with our fellow-men.
There is no man or woman born into this world to whom some of these trials
do not fall, and so I feel that some of them must happen to you; and I
desire for you, that while you are young you should seek for strength from
your Heavenly Father, that you may have a support which will not fail you
in the evil day."</p>
<p>Dinah paused and released Hetty's hands that she might not hinder her.
Hetty sat quite still; she felt no response within herself to Dinah's
anxious affection; but Dinah's words uttered with solemn pathetic
distinctness, affected her with a chill fear. Her flush had died away
almost to paleness; she had the timidity of a luxurious pleasure-seeking
nature, which shrinks from the hint of pain. Dinah saw the effect, and her
tender anxious pleading became the more earnest, till Hetty, full of a
vague fear that something evil was some time to befall her, began to cry.</p>
<p>It is our habit to say that while the lower nature can never understand
the higher, the higher nature commands a complete view of the lower. But I
think the higher nature has to learn this comprehension, as we learn the
art of vision, by a good deal of hard experience, often with bruises and
gashes incurred in taking things up by the wrong end, and fancying our
space wider than it is. Dinah had never seen Hetty affected in this way
before, and, with her usual benignant hopefulness, she trusted it was the
stirring of a divine impulse. She kissed the sobbing thing, and began to
cry with her for grateful joy. But Hetty was simply in that excitable
state of mind in which there is no calculating what turn the feelings may
take from one moment to another, and for the first time she became
irritated under Dinah's caress. She pushed her away impatiently, and said,
with a childish sobbing voice, "Don't talk to me so, Dinah. Why do you
come to frighten me? I've never done anything to you. Why can't you let me
be?"</p>
<p>Poor Dinah felt a pang. She was too wise to persist, and only said mildly,
"Yes, my dear, you're tired; I won't hinder you any longer. Make haste and
get into bed. Good-night."</p>
<p>She went out of the room almost as quietly and quickly as if she had been
a ghost; but once by the side of her own bed, she threw herself on her
knees and poured out in deep silence all the passionate pity that filled
her heart.</p>
<p>As for Hetty, she was soon in the wood again—her waking dreams being
merged in a sleeping life scarcely more fragmentary and confused.</p>
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