She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. This is not the conduct of a jeune demoiselle. Her mother informed her of the betrothal on the first painful day of her menarche, shortly after her eleventh birthday. "Open my heart, Father of Mercy!" she murmured, in a humble tone, and with downcast looks, "and make me sensible of the error of my ways. ‘They hold their nose up, so.
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