Again she felt before her the expanding and opening arms of the protecting woods.

Had they really closed upon her in some pantheistic embrace that made her a part of them?
Had she been baptized in that moonlight as a child of the great forest?
It was easy to believe in the myths of the poets of an idyllic life under those trees, where, free from conventional restrictions, one loved and was loved.

If she, with her own worldly experience, could think of this now, why might not George Kearney have thought?
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