We close the chapter. It was ended. Her cheeks were aflame. In the corner of the room were two hockey-sticks and a tennis-racket, and upon the walls Ann Veronica, by means of autotypes, had indicated her proclivities in art. Who invented them? Nobody knows. An ugly flush stained his cheeks. It was her foster brother Mike, on his way to the bathroom. Winifred listened to his narration with the profoundest attention; and, when it concluded, her tearful eye and throbbing bosom told how deeply her feelings had been interested.
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