" "And leave you thus?" rejoined Jack. She watched her friend rise and go towards her affianced husband, a look of mischief in her face. My death, probably. They were childless and servantless, and they had reduced simple living to the finest of fine arts. 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. Of a certainty, she also was imbecile. "Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind.
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