\" 66 She commented as more doors slammed. "What's that?—Jack's voice!" "It is," replied her son. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. The family always managed to make it home for supper, even though it was a dying custom. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning.
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