"Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. ” The shock of their intellectual attitude was over, usage robbed it of the first quaint effect of deliberate unreason. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. "If I could only make you realize what you have done," he said, lamely. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again.
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