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. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. ” “Not worth the trouble. Through all he said ran one quality that pleased her—the quality of a man who feels that things can be done, that one need not wait for the world to push one before one moved. Nothing could occupy her attention long today, unless it concerned her situation. She looked round wildly, as if seeking some source of help, as the boots halted at the front door and the shouting intensified.
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