” She said quietly. "Don't touch me. “I have made no progress with my work,” she said slowly, “and the money was gone. “I’ve gotta go. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. Gravely he placed them in his aunt's hand. What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. Now lend me your own hand. —Providence, I mean—HAS arranged it so that men will keep you, more or less.
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