“Aunt!” she said, “I can’t—” Then she caught a wild appeal in her aunt’s blue eye, halted, and the door clicked upon them. Quilt's manner, indeed, was that of a man endeavouring to muster up sufficient resolution for the commission of some desperate crime. He seemed to know a great deal about life. She could not part with dignity. She returned home through a world that was as roseate as it had been gray overnight. She had adored the stupid thing, and kept it in her pocket for about ten years.
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