Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. When Mr. Modern, indeed! She was going to be as primordial as chipped flint. The funeral procession had now approached the grave, around which many of the congregation, who were deeply interested by the sad ceremonial, had gathered. Without her, it was lonely. She knew blood was rushing to his face and other places as well. Where was this kindly world she had drawn so rosily in fancy? Disillusion everywhere.
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