“Aunt!” she said, “I can’t—” Then she caught a wild appeal in her aunt’s blue eye, halted, and the door clicked upon them. "If there is any honour in you, stop and think. “Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself. Then he took the pulse. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash. We can get absorbed in play, in games, in the business we do. There was no one at all in this room, but through the half-open door of one of the small apartments that gave upon it she had a glimpse of two very young girls sitting at a littered table and writing briskly. We have seen pitted cheeks, which we would not exchange for dimples and a satin skin. She fidgeted and looked away.
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