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'If you tell me to hope! Oh, Mrs. Edmonstone, is it wrong that an earthly incentive to persevere should have power which sometimes seems greater than the true one? 'There is the best and strongest ground of all for trusting you, said she. 'If you spoke keeping right only for Amy's sake, then I might fear; but when she is second, there is confidence indeed. 'If speaking were all! said Guy.
"Right you are, my dear," he agreed, laughing again. "'Round pegs in square holes. The woods are full of them." "That Mrs. Watkins never should have gone out to work. "I guess not." "And people like Mrs. Carringford have got their own families and their own troubles. So we can't get them." "What put Amy's mother in your mind?" "I wish you could see their house, Daddy."
I wonder what he would have thought of his kinswoman Amy's free verses if he had lived to read them. If a large, good-natured, clean, healthy animal could write poetry, it would write much such poetry as the "Leaves of Grass."
She indicated the glories of Bursley Park, as the train slackened for Bursley, with modesty. Sophia gazed, and vaguely recognized the slopes where she had taken her first walk with Gerald Scales. Nobody accosted them at Bursley Station, and they drove to the Square in a cab. Amy was at the window; she held up Spot, who was in a plenary state of cleanliness, rivalling the purity of Amy's apron.
The tenderer ones had long since been taken up and prepared for winter blooming. To Amy's inquiry where Johnnie was, Maggie had replied that she had gone nutting by previous engagement with Mr. Alvord, and as the party returned in the glowing evening they met the oddly assorted friends with their baskets well filled.
Little suspecting the scheme which had been laid, she met Sir Philip with feelings of gratitude; but they were exchanged for sentiments bordering on disgust when he became a suitor for her hand. There was nothing vicious about the young man he was the dupe, not the deceiver; but to a mind like Amy's, filled, too, as it was with the image of Herbert Lyddiard, his attentions were intolerable.
Amy and Ethel and Aunt Elizabeth wore white frocks, and looked very cool and feminine and high-bred. Aunt Elizabeth had a nose like Amy's and the same look of race. It was Aunt Elizabeth who said in her commanding voice: "What are you talking about, Anne?" "I am going to work in the War Risk Bureau, Aunt Elizabeth. I wrote to two senators, and they helped me."
She shot a look as keen as a knife, which asked, "Do you really want a child? Or are you like her? Was it a mistake?" And Ethel went quickly out of the room. In the living-room her eye was caught by Amy's photograph on the table. She had always kept it there. In her cleaning she had put it back. Emily, too, had put it back. They had never spoken Amy's name.
A little bent creature, whose name I never learned, sat patting Viola's skirt. "Seems like I'd gone back years," we heard her say. Grandma Holly held up one half-closed hand. "Like that," she told them, "my Amy's feet was so little I could hold 'em like that, an' I see hers is the same way. She's wonderful like Amy was, her age." I cannot recall half the sweet, trivial things that they said.
As they smiled at each other, again and again she had to fight down an impulse to cry or shiver. She would bite her lips and turn away and watch people, then turn quickly back and start talking rapidly. At home, alone in Amy's room, she sat at the dressing table there, her movements swift and feverish.
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