She threw hat and coat on the bed and sat down before the fire. ’ ‘You would speak of the house?’ ‘Many’s the time little Miss Mary would say her papa meant for her to have it, she having no brothers and sisters at all—when we played together I mean, she and me and Joan Pottiswick. And here you are!” Her aunt opened all the fingers of her gloved hand in a rhetorical gesture. A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient. When she awoke she felt as if she were adrift on a soft cloud through a golden sky.
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