" It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. The windows of these rooms were obscured with draperies, their floors a carpet patchwork; the china ornaments on their mantels were of a class apart. Hitchings, who seem to be absolutely engrossed in one another, and a boy of about seventeen, who no sooner got here than he discovered that he wanted to see a man in the promenade and disappeared. These fellows must be right,” he added thoughtfully, “and yet—there’s a mystery somewhere. It was free of leering men, unthinkable punishments, and human evil. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony.
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