It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. He was a man who in all things classified without nuance, and for him there were in the matter of age just two feminine classes and no more—girls and women. "The Dawn Pearl," he said. She looked up and said, a little breathlessly, “I’m sorry, aunt, but I don’t think I can. " "It's a queer girl. He deserves none.
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