I—well, I lost my temper. Notwithstanding her emaciation, her features still retained something of a pleasing expression, and might have been termed beautiful, had it not been for that repulsive freshness of lip denoting the habitual dram-drinker; a freshness in her case rendered the more shocking from the almost livid hue of the rest of her complexion. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. Well-balanced, sane, wasn’t I? You never heard anyone call me a madman? I’m pretty near being one now, and it’s her fault. She was drawn first by Miss Miniver, and then by her own natural interest, into a curious stratum of people who are busied with dreams of world progress, of great and fundamental changes, of a New Age that is to replace all the stresses and disorders of contemporary life. ” “Please tell me why?” she asked. She fought the inclination for a while, then surrendered. Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. "Married!—no—no," replied the woollen-draper. The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks.
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