She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. If you were ten years younger, you'd have me wondering. Suppose our proper place is a shrine. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. He was bewildered.
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