The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. She saw herself building up a life upon that —a life restrained, kindly, beautiful, a little pathetic and altogether dignified; a life of great disciplines and suppressions and extensive reserves. Mrs. “I wonder if they will seem altered,” she remarked for the third time. In the genuinely dissipated face there was always a suggestion of slyness in ambush, peeping out of the wrinkles around the eyes and the lips. ‘Can I not leave you for a day without you getting yourself into trouble?’ ‘Imbecile,’ she uttered faintly. “My dear sweet Lucia. It must be the dawn creeping in. If the creator drew a hero anything like himself, she would accept it as a sign that he did care a little. But we cannot discuss this here.
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