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On the Shelf

           Wantofexerciserobsthemofcheerfulness,andtoomuchdevotiontothatidolofAmericanwomen,theteapot,makesthemfeelasiftheywereallnerveandnomuscle.

           "Yes,"shewouldsay,lookingintheglass,"I’mgettingoldandugly.Johndoesn’tfindmeinterestinganylonger,soheleaveshisfadedwifeandgoestoseehisprettyneighbor,whohasnoincumbrances.Well,thebabiesloveme,theydon’tcareifIamthinandpaleandhaven’ttimetocrimpmyhair,theyaremycomfort,andsomedayJohnwillseewhatI’vegladlysacrificedforthem,won’the,myprecious?"

           TowhichpatheticappealDaisywouldanswerwithacoo,orDemiwithacrow,andMegwouldputbyherlamentationsforamaternalrevel,whichsoothedhersolitudeforthetimebeing.ButthepainincreasedaspoliticsabsorbedJohn,whowasalwaysrunningovertodiscussinterestingpointswithScott,quiteunconsciousthatMegmissedhim.Notaworddidshesay,however,tillhermotherfoundherintearsoneday,andinsistedonknowingwhatthematterwas,forMeg’sdroopingspiritshadnotescapedherobservation.

           "Iwouldn’ttellanyoneexceptyou,Mother,butIreallydoneedadvice,forifJohngoesonmuchlongerImightaswellbewidowed,"repliedMrs.Brooke,dryinghertearsonDaisy’sbibwithaninjuredair.

           "Goesonhow,mydear?"askedhermotheranxiously.

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