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Chapter I. I Go to Styles

           Hastings—MissMurdoch.”

           CynthiaMurdochwasafresh-lookingyoungcreature,fulloflifeandvigour.ShetossedoffherlittleV.A.D.cap,andIadmiredthegreatloosewavesofherauburnhair,andthesmallnessandwhitenessofthehandsheheldouttoclaimhertea.Withdarkeyesandeyelashesshewouldhavebeenabeauty.

           SheflungherselfdownonthegroundbesideJohn,andasIhandedheraplateofsandwichesshesmiledupatme.

           “Sitdownhereonthegrass,do.It’seversomuchnicer.”

           Idroppeddownobediently.

           “YouworkatTadminster,don’tyou,MissMurdoch?”

           Shenodded.

           “Formysins.”

           “Dotheybullyyou,then?”Iasked,smiling.

           “Ishouldliketoseethem!”criedCynthiawithdignity.

           “Ihavegotacousinwhoisnursing,”Iremarked.“Andsheisterrifiedof‘Sisters’.”

           “Idon’twonder.Sistersare,youknow,Mr.Hastings.Theysimp-lyare!You’venoidea!ButI’mnotanurse,thankheaven,Iworkinthedispensary.”

           “Howmanypeopledoyoupoison?”Iasked,smiling.

           Cynthiasmiledtoo.

           “Oh,hundreds!”shesaid.

           “Cynthia,”calledMrs.Inglethorp,“doyouthinkyoucouldwriteafewnotesforme?”

           “Certainly,AuntEmily.”

           Shejumpeduppromptly,andsomethinginhermannerremindedmethatherpositionwasadependentone,andthatMrs.Inglethorp,kindasshemightbeinthemain,didnotallowhertoforgetit.

           Myhostessturnedtome.

           “Johnwillshowyouyourroom.Supperisathalf-pastseven.Wehavegivenuplatedinnerforsometimenow.

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