The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. They thought that she was her own mother. Later, she understood his reasons; and it had now become habit. She could see that she was now the exclusive object of the boy’s attention. Sniveling brats, little fatherless bastards, you should breathe a sigh of relief. A diversion was created by the violent struggles of the little old lady. But from the first her rather old-fashioned conception of life had jarred with the suburban atmosphere, the High School spirit and the memories of the light and little Mrs. Tucked under the writing-table a pair of yellow and gold Turkish slippers of a highly meretricious quality caught her eye. ‘I agree with you.
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