Deena was standing in her petticoat when her sister joined her in her bed-room-not in a petticoat of lace and needlework, such as peeped from under the edge of Polly's smart frock as she threw herself into a chair, but a skimpy black silk skirt with a prim ruffle, made from an old gown of Mrs. Ponsonby's. It was neat and fresh, however, and her neck and arms, exposed by her little tucked underwaist, were of a beauty to ravish a painter or a sculptor.
Polly herself, boyish and angular in build, groaned to think of such perfection "born to blush unseen"; her one season in Boston had demonstrated to her the value of beauty as an asset in that strange, modern exchange we call society. She was evidently trying to say something that would not get itself said, and her elder sister was too busy with her toilet to notice the signs of perturbation. Finally the words came with a rush.
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The querulousness with which
The methods by which
Her keenest American competitor
Will you tell Mr
And it s all
But as the boy
LOVE AND MUSHROOMS By
When a summer storm
She laughed in an
Deena recognized her place
It was evidently the
As one of London
As it happens that
No masculine playwright could
The slightest swerve at
She more than ever
There ain t so
I had not counted
Of course it was
For the first time
He took off his
Her hair was loosely
Hilary likewise noted it
She had got to
To the astonishment of
Not to mince matters
Whether Mrs Paget was
Now by blessed good
There was no whisper
Oh those old jokes
In the crowd a
Not too fast all
You had better run
Leeds go The early
Ponsonby before her flitting
And then she was
It makes one feel
It so happened that
I tried to make
Though I longed with
Calling at the house
Then she came over
Tim flung away his
He ll be a
Among the second choices
The fact that I
At first he had
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