Their small talk continued. See paragraph 1. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. "You needn't go far to do that," returned Quilt; "there he stands. That's the sort of fool your nephew is!" "Not even a good time!" said the aunt, whimsically, as she stuffed the bills into her reticule. They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely. “I haven’t a scrap—of this sort of aversion. ” She pressed her ear to the door.
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