"Begone, wretch!" cried the mother, stung beyond endurance by his taunts; "or I will drive you hence with my curses. I might as well be at Morningside Park. He did not care whether the stories were accepted or not. Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground. It was a bizarre sight, a miniature manor, replicated fully, walled in gray limestone.
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