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Harriet followed her to the hall door, and heard a Parthian shot, ad-dressed in a cheerfully high voice to kindly old Mrs. Warren, Mrs. Fordyce's mother, who was in the limousine. "Nobody home! All my trouble for nothing!" Old Mrs. Warren leaned against the frosted glass; waved from the holly-dressed interior at Harriet, and the girl saw her lips frame "Merry Christmas!"
For years after that Livingstone had never thought of Christmas without being conscious of a certain radiance that vision shed upon the time. The next day in the holly-dressed church she seemed a saint wrapt in divine adoration. Another shift of the scene; another Christmas. Reverses had come.
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