Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. “Dear friend,” she said, “remember that you are speaking to one who has failed in the only serious object which she has ever sought to accomplish. CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. Upon my word, Anna,” she declared, with a strange little laugh, “you are a thousand times more like me as I was two months ago than I am myself.
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