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           Bolingbrokewouldgowildoveryou,QueenAnneyourhairandyourstyleand,oh,everything!You’resoDIFFERENT.You’dbesuchasuccessandIwouldbaskinreflectedglory‘nottherosebutneartherose.’Docome,afterall,Anne.”

           “Yourpictureofsocialtriumphsisquitefascinating,Phil,butI’llpaintonetooffsetit.I’mgoinghometoanoldcountryfarmhouse,oncegreen,ratherfadednow,setamongleaflessappleorchards.ThereisabrookbelowandaDecemberfirwoodbeyond,whereI’veheardharpssweptbythefingersofrainandwind.Thereisapondnearbythatwillbegrayandbroodingnow.Therewillbetwooldishladiesinthehouse,onetallandthin,oneshortandfat;andtherewillbetwotwins,oneaperfectmodel,theotherwhatMrs.Lyndecallsa‘holyterror.’Therewillbealittleroomupstairsovertheporch,whereolddreamshangthick,andabig,fat,gloriousfeatherbedwhichwillalmostseemtheheightofluxuryafteraboardinghousemattress.Howdoyoulikemypicture,Phil?”

           “Itseemsaverydullone,”saidPhil,withagrimace.

           “Oh,butI’veleftoutthetransformingthing,”saidAnnesoftly.“There’llbelovethere,Philfaithful,tenderlove,suchasI’llneverfindanywhereelseintheworldlovethat’swaitingforme.Thatmakesmypictureamasterpiece,doesn’tit,evenifthecolorsarenotverybrilliant?”

           Philsilentlygotup,tossedherboxofchocolatesaway,wentuptoAnne,andputherarmsabouther.

           “Anne,IwishIwaslikeyou,”shesaidsoberly.

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