For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate. Earles thinks I am a little mad, and between ourselves I am not sure about it myself. But what did the occupant of the box care? The laugh was always with the dead: they were out of the muddle. The walls were pristine white and unmarked except for two sconces and a rather colorless Monet poster that had been framed in an expensive oak surround. It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face. Fritz flailed against his mother wildly, crying generous tears.
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