[108] at her eyes — the only part of her face I remember — with a strong fascination. They were wide, and full, and blue; whether fine or not, I could not at seven years old decide; but they always seemed to look far off, out of and beyond the story she was telling or the picture she was showing me; and in looking at her eyes I seemed to travel with her fancy through fairy-land. She was very sweet and good to me, and I missed her very much when, after a time, my father moved to Boston and I could no longer crawl under or climb over the fence to my Miss Margaret; for I scorned the gate, which was just as near, but had not that touch of romance.
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