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Updated: May 25, 2025
Priscilla's lip trembled; Diadema's tears fell thick and fast on the white rosebud, and she had to keep wiping her eyes as she followed the pattern. "I ain't said as much as this about it for five years," she went on, with a tell-tale quiver in her voice, "but now I've got going I can't stop. I'll have to get the weight out o' my heart somehow.
She sat in the chair of honor, the chair of choice, the high-backed rocker by the southern window, in which her husband's mother, old Mrs. Bascom, had sat for thirty years, applying a still more powerful intellectual telescope to the doings of her neighbors. Diadema's seat had formerly been on the less desirable side of the little light-stand, where Priscilla Hollis was now installed. Mrs.
The neighbors thought this solicitude merely another sign of Diadema's "p'ison neatness," excusable in this case as there was so much white in the new rug.
There was silence in the room, broken only by the ticking of the old clock and the tinkle of a distant cowbell. Priscilla made an impetuous movement, flung herself down by the basket of rags, and buried her head in Diadema's gingham apron. "Dear Mrs. Bascom, don't cry. I'm sorry, as the children say." "No, I won't more 'n a minute. Jot can't stand it to see me give way.
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