Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. “I shall be waiting for you there, and in the meantime, if you will help yourself—pray don’t look like that. But her heart kept on sinking. All the same, I don’t admit it. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten.
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