Her father read a draft prospectus warily, and her aunt dropped fragments of her projects for managing while the cook had a holiday. It was she! The Dawn Pearl! He vaulted the veranda rail, careless now whether or not he was heard, and ran down to the beach. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. The daughters, he had hoped, would be their mother’s care. Now I shall never hear it but what this evening will come pouring back over me.
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