It was you! It was exactly you, but it was probably the photo they thought it was your mother! I dug it up after combing the Reader’s Guide To Periodical Literature for like, six hours straight. This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness. Of course there were goats. Two of these had been her particular intimates at the High School, and had done much to send her mind exploring beyond the limits of the available literature at home. Don’t be late if you can help it. It was her job to keep the house as neat as a pin, up to the high standard that Sheila expected, being a nurse. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. Let me keep him.
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