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She was a woman now to the tips of her fingers; she had said good-bye to her girlhood in the old garden four years and a quarter ago. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. Papa doesn't even care, but he just goes along with whatever my Mom says.
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