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Updated: May 7, 2025
I couldn't tell which I was blushing all to myself about, the "luscious peach" he had called me or the "lovely lily" Alfred had reminded me in his letter that I had been when he left me. Why don't people realize that a seventeen-year-old girl's heart is a sensitive wind-flower that may be shattered by a breath?
How placid the sea looks this morning, aglitter in the sunlight. And yet I have been in the middle of the Atlantic when the waves ran mountains high." "You are quite a heroine, Miss Hunsden, and a wonderful traveler for a seventeen-year-old young lady. You see, I know your age; but at seventeen a young lady does not mind, I believe. How long have you been in England this time?"
It had been a mystifyingly good season in a bad business year. Even old T. A. himself was almost satisfied. Commissions piled up with gratifying regularity for Emma McChesney. Then, quite suddenly, the lonely evenings, the lack of woman companionship, and the longing for a sight of her seventeen-year-old son had got on Emma McChesney's nerves.
The drive home was enchanting, with a lovely view from the top of the hill; a beautiful blue sea at our feet and the turrets and pointed roofs of the Villers houses taking every possible colour from the sunset clouds. We went back once more to a thé dansant given for her seventeen-year-old daughter.
She spoke of her husband's "men"; she alluded to the well as "the works"; she checked the easy frontier familiarity of her customers with pretty Mary Mulrady, her seventeen-year-old daughter. Simple Alvin Mulrady looked with astonishment at this sudden development of the germ planted in all feminine nature to expand in the slightest sunshine of prosperity.
He knew one thing, however Evelyn Rogers was a wellspring of vital information. The very fact that she talked inconsequentialities incessantly and occasionally let drop remarks of vital import made her the more valuable. He knew that he had not seen the last of the seventeen-year-old girl.
Curious thing all the while that my mind was telling me how my whole existence had unfitted me to be a wife to such a man for Charlie Mills is as full of romantic illusions as a seventeen-year-old girl at the same time some queer streak in me made me long to wipe the slate clean and start all over again.
Oh the pain the pain! And I can't stand pain! You you girl! You innocent seventeen-year-old girl! You that couldn't hurt any creature! You so tender so gentle!... Bah! you fooled me. The cunning of a woman! I ought to know. A good woman's more terrible than a bad woman.... But I deserved this. Once I used to be.... Only, the torture!... Why didn't you kill me outright?... Joan Randle watch me die!
And the ideal solution will be when every individual woman in the world extends her mothering to include every young thing she comes in contact with; one doll for her own child and another doll for the ashman's little girl, one dimity for her own debutante, and another just as dainty for the seventeen-year-old who brings home the laundry every week."
"A seventeen-year-old boy who can get the better of Jim Beckwith is smart, and no mistake." "Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me whether it's true that the watch belongs to Mr. Beckwith, as he says?" "I bought it of another man, who may have stolen it from him," said he of the white hat, cautiously. "Well, you'll have to settle with him. I'm out of it!"
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