It appeared highly probable to her that he would stop her allowance. He turned. The streets were full of colour. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. “It really seems as if we shall have to put down marigolds altogether next year,” Aunt Molly repeated three times, “and do away with marguerites. McClintock never threw away any advertising matter; in fact, he openly courted pamphlets; and they came from automobile dealers and great mail-order houses, from haberdashers and tailors and manufacturers of hair-tonics, razors, gloves, shoes, open plumbing. But, indeed, he’s very human. She ought to have been disposed to faint and scream at all these happenings; she ought to have maintained a front of outraged dignity to veil the sinking of her heart. “How will you live?” she appealed.
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