Her father held some printed document in his hand, and appeared not to observe her entry. She hoped the lights would become hot enough to melt her into the floor. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. “This,” he said, and then: “No! Is this sweeter? Very well. She had reason enough to be grateful to Prudence Sindlesham and it was not fair that this horrible feeling of loneliness should be made known to her. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning. ’ A little sigh escaped her.
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