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The Coming of Stephanie Platow

           Thatsweetillusion,withitspearlypinkforheartandborders,thatlaughingcherubthatlureswithCupid’smouthandmistyeye,thatyoungtendrilofthevineoflifethatwhispersofeternalspring-time,thatcallsandcallswhereaching,weariedfeetbylegionfollow,wasnolongerinexistence.

           Invainthetears,thestorms,theself-tortures;invainthelooksinthemirror,thestudiedexaminationofplump,sweetfeaturesstillfreshandinviting.Oneday,atthesightoftiredcirclesunderhereyes,sherippedfromherneckalovelyruchethatshewasadjustingand,throwingherselfonherbed,criedasthoughherheartwouldbreak.Whyprimp?Whyornament?HerFrankdidnotloveher.WhattohernowwasahandsomeresidenceinMichiganAvenue,therefinementsofaFrenchboudoir,orclothingthatranthegamutofthedressmaker’sart,hatsthatwerelikeorchidsbloominginserriedrows?Invain,invain!Liketheraventhatperchedabovethelintelofthedoor,sadmemorywashere,graveinherwidowweeds,crying"nevermore."AileenknewthatthesweetillusionwhichhadboundCowperwoodtoherforatimehadgoneandwouldnevercomeagain.Hewashere.Hisstepwasintheroommorningsandevenings;atnightforlongprosaic,uninterruptedperiodsshecouldhearhimbreathingbyherside,hishandonherbody.Therewereothernightswhenhewasnottherewhenhewas"outofthecity"—andsheresignedherselftoaccepthisexcusesattheirfacevalue.Whyquarrel?sheaskedherself.

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Roboto Lora
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