She had neither the semi-boisterousness of the average American girl nor the chilling insolence of the English. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. “And let us have a talk about this—some other time. But, finding the cellar-door open, concluded he had got out that way. 'Slife! you are wonderfully altered. . They even talked about friendship. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. And, yet, I don't know.
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