“MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. I even offered him back the half interest he had sold to me. She was greatly exercised by the problem of confiding in the Widgetts; they were dears, and she talked away two evenings with Constance without broaching the topic; she made some vague intimations in letters to Miss Miniver that Miss Miniver failed to mark. White Sears special-order orthopedic shoes, polyester pants, and cotton print blouses were her usual weekend attire. There is the election——” He laughed derisively. I had to sell out, you see, when my father died, for the estate is in my hands. Here we are absconding, pretending to be what we are not; shady, to say the least of it. It stunned her.
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