‘Still more would I be so if he had come himself to tell me this. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. . Why aren’t you folded up clean in lavender—as every young woman ought to be? What have you been doing with yourself?.
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