” She said as the car stopped. She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands. She tried to be casual. Dim souls flitted about her, not only speaking but it would seem even thinking in undertones. The moral right of the author has been asserted. Her personal maidservant, the first she had ever had in her life, was joyful for her. Only one thing emerged with any reasonable clarity in her mind at once, and that was that unless she was saved from drowning by an unmarried man, in which case the ceremony is unavoidable, or totally destitute of under-clothing, and so driven to get a trousseau, in which hardship a trousseau would certainly be “ripping,” marriage was an experience to be strenuously evaded. She thought me— filthy.
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