” Her reverie broke, and she found herself still in front of the looking glass, a barrette hanging loosely from her hair. “The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas. We have seen pitted cheeks, which we would not exchange for dimples and a satin skin. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. The other was helping Trodger with his operation upstairs. A mate? A brother-lover to tromp about the world with? “I cannot. Mrs. E. "A mother's prayers—a mother's blessings," she cried, with the fervour almost of inspiration, "will avail against a fiend's malice. I worshipped her and subdued myself.
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