“Yes?” “You remember once, how we talked—at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living. ” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. When I gave him an invitation to supper, I little thought he'd accept it. “Won’t you give me your address?” She shook her head. During that period she has been a model of propriety. Once before—but that had been different.
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