Her teeth were chattering so hard that she had to clench them for fear of biting off her own tongue. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. To these she added the wine and spirits directed, and when all was arranged looked inquisitively at her master. The gong will go at seven-thirty. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. They clapped wildly afterward.
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