“It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. She ought to be softened and tender and confidential at this phase of her life. ‘You do not believe me?’ ‘I do not. She crept behind the open door and pounced on him when he came out of the bathroom, knocking him onto the floor with a loud thud. T. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had.
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