It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. Guiding this man of hers over the troubled sea of life had engraved these lines. She had flung away from her father’s support with the finest assumption of personal independence. It was a bright and beautiful day: so bright, so beautiful, that even her sad heart was cheered by it. Wood became sensible that he was not alone. She made an abrupt personal appeal. “My Mom makes more money than my Dad, a lot more. "Well, well, we'll say no more about it," replied Wood; "and, by way of changing the subject, let me advise you on no account to fly to strong waters for consolation, Joan. . ’ ‘But, Hilary—’ ‘Don’t you begin, Lucilla, for I won’t stand for it. " Quilt, however, seemed unwilling to speak. It occurred to her that it was absurd and wrong to be so continuously thinking of one engrossing topic, and she made a strenuous effort to force her mind to other questions.
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