She returned home through a world that was as roseate as it had been gray overnight. Only her face was clear, frail and delicate, almost flower-like, with the sad haunting eyes ever watching his. The crowner's 'quest sat on her yesterday—and if she hadn't been proved out of her mind, she would have been buried at four lane-ends. If only we are not divided. She was a clever girl, the best of her year in the High School, and she made a valiant fight for Somerville or Newnham but her father had met and argued with a Somerville girl at a friend’s dinner-table and he thought that sort of thing unsexed a woman. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. It's sixteen days down, with The Tigress.
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