At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead. Still, one never could tell. It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud. But, alas! she was beautiful—and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous woman. “Oh, there’s no doubt of it! Since the girls of the eighties broke bounds and sailed away on bicycles—my young days go back to the very beginnings of that —it’s been one triumphant relaxation. Sometimes I try to talk.
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