" "I know what is good," she replied. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. They are rather a long way off, but you could write to them. The ticket line filtered slowly into the glass doors, growing louder and more boisterous by the minute.
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