For this three weeks had been the hardest of her life. "What is a sing-song girl?" she asked. “The conventions do not matter one little bit. Altogether, it was a hideous and revolting sight. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. Her lips came together with an expression between contentment and the faintest shadow of a smile, her manner was one of quiet reserve, and behind this mask she was wildly discontented and eager for freedom and life.
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