“It really seems as if we shall have to put down marigolds altogether next year,” Aunt Molly repeated three times, “and do away with marguerites. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. But, I'll expose him. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. She responded with an unfaltering appearance of insensibility, and never as a young and beautiful woman conscious of sex; always in the character of an intelligent girl student. If he had nothing to tell her, she had nothing to ask.
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