Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. “I wonder—I wonder if we shall ever get like that. We are alone and we can say and do what we please. Daughters were not like sons. Then her fingers moved. org Section 4. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. It’s one of their worst traits, one of their very worst.
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