“Well,” she admitted. Some of the lunatics were rattling their chains; some shrieking; some singing; some beating with frantic violence against the doors. “To the young man himself,” he answered, “no! I simply object to his calling here two or three times a week during my absence. ” Her reverie broke, and she found herself still in front of the looking glass, a barrette hanging loosely from her hair. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. But she certainly remembered that when she was a little girl he sometimes wore tennis flannels, and also rode a bicycle very dexterously in through the gates to the front door.
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