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Updated: May 27, 2025
Her talk that morning, many weeks ago, that had seemed to ramble so from one irrelevant matter to another, from the parable to her fancy-traveling, the scenes and pleasures she had made for herself, wondering if the real would ever come; to the linen-drawer, representing her little feminine absorptions and interests; and back to the fig-tree again, ending with that word, "the real living is the urging toward the fruit"? Her day's journey, and the hints of life narrowed, suffering, working that had come to her, each with its problem?
Then I inspected the supper table and lighted the lamp with the Ruskin-green shade and supplanted Dinky-Dunk's napkin that had a coffee-stain along its edge with a fresh one from the linen-drawer.
Linceford has just got home from Paris, and brought them wardrobes to last to remotest posterity! And such things! Such rufflings, and stitchings, and embroiderings! Why, mine look as if they'd been made by the blacksmith!" The "linen-drawer" was an institution of Mrs.
Miss Goldthwaite was singularly discursive and fragmentary in her conversation this morning, somehow. She dropped the map-traveling suddenly, and asked a new question. "And how comes on the linen-drawer?" "O Cousin Del! I'm humiliated, disgusted! I feel as small as butterflies' pinfeathers! I've been to see the Haddens. Mrs.
It was "done for odd-minute work, and was better than anything she could buy." Prettier it certainly was, when, with a finishing of the merest edge of lace, it came to encircle her round, fair arms and shoulders, or to peep out with its dainty revelation among the gathering treasures of the linen-drawer I told you of. She had accomplished yards of it already for her holiday work.
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