It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face. "Give me your hand, Poll, to help me through," cried Jack, as he accomplished the operation. "Did you write it?" "No. “Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked.
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