She came to her one day and pulled on her apron. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. “He’s quite the inventor. “Until you marry, Vee,” said Hetty. I pity her from the bottom of my heart. I speak frankly, because you also know that no possible extremity would induce me to accept help from any living person.
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