She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. She could smell the sweet girl child he had buried in the garage in autumn, 1 even under the frozen ground. She would not look at him, would not think of him; when her mind wavered, then she muttered to herself in the darkness so as to keep hold of her generalizations. "It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew," cried Trenchard. It’s so different from what one has been led to expect. "Mother—dear mother!" said Jack, bursting into tears.
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