There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. She was at the end of girlhood and on the eve of a woman’s crowning experience. “I suppose all life is an affair of chances. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. “John, you were never bound to me, you don’t owe me anything. It is dull—deadly dull. She was perplexed by this, and stood for some seconds in the empty street hesitating, until the appearance of another circumspect woman under the street lamp at the corner reassured her. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. "I did see them on the platform of the bridge—the child and his preserver! They were not struck by the fallen ruin, nor whelmed in the roaring flood,—or, if they were, they escaped as I escaped.
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