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Her father had taught her to despise the pettiness of women, but in Mrs. Chumley's sweet sympathy she had found a new model of conduct. Her later philosophy was a quaint one. "It isn't fair, Mrs. Chumley," she said one day, sitting on the settee in her little room, knees drawn up to chin and her arms embracing them "it isn't fair to hate a girl for being spiteful.
Chumley's sweet and unselfish life affords nothing but an illustration of unworldliness. Yet, if these were your only friends, I should be more contented." Flamby tapped her foot upon the carpet and stared down at it unseeingly. "Are there some of my friends you don't think quite nice?" she asked. Her humility must have surprised many a one who had thought he knew her well.
"Yet you seem to have quite a number of girl friends come to see you as well as boys." "Yes. You see I make allowances for them and then they are quite good friends." "Who was that fair man who took you to the theatre last night, and brought you home in a lovely car?" "Orlando James. He has the next studio to Mr. Chauvin. I hate him." Mrs. Chumley's blue eyes became even more circular than usual.
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