Over an old crazy bedstead was thrown a squalid, patchwork counterpane; and upon the counterpane lay a black hood and scarf, a pair of bodice of the cumbrous form in vogue at the beginning of the last century, and some other articles of female attire. “Suppose, for example, I go to this dance?” “You won’t. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact.
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