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There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. You have somewhere to go to in London, I hope. ” John looked at her sympathetically. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. “I don’t see, Mollie,” he remarked, taking a cigar from the box on the table as his sister and daughter rose, “why you and Vee shouldn’t discuss this little affair —whatever it is—without bothering me. ” He looked into her pale blue eyes. ” He called for a hansom. ” He looked at her pleadingly. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. She fluttered it with a trembling hand, averting her eyes from his, and he could hear her uneven breath behind it.

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