Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. It is not possible for us to be on friendly terms with a young man who has been seen in a public place, having supper alone with your sister after midnight. Do you know how late it is?” She nodded. They decided quite audibly, “She’s an Old Dear, anyhow.
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