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She thought gleefully of the dress she would get to wear for the Ball (Prom?) and could not wait to tell her foster family about how excited she was. " "And who is its mother?" asked Jonathan, in an eager whisper. "Would you rather be alone?" "No. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. It is better that you go away now, I think. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears.
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