O'Higgins struck a match and lit his Henry Clay, thereby drawing upon himself the mutual disapproval of the spinsters. At table he carved in a gloomy but resolute manner. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. There was a long silence between them. She crawled into her small bed, dizzy with the thoughts of him, of kissing him.
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