“Sydney is quite right, Miss Pellissier,” he said. “Don’t they look like a pair of young lovers sleeping off a tryst?” He observed. I must!” She threw open the door and pointed to it. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. Narrow little beady brown eyes, and she’s got big eyebrows like dead caterpillars. The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper.
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