She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. I know now that I was mistaken. A remittance man. “I’d give anything,” he remarked, “to see our little Vee happily and comfortably married. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. The one nearest to her, which must lead to the library.
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