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“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. You do not love your husband, you have married him for a position —to escape from—things which you feared. I asked several shopkeepers the same question: ‘Do you know the blue-eyed maid with the curly brown hair? She has a mother who is fair with the same eyes. “How dare you!” she panted, with her world screaming and grimacing insult at her. “Quite right,” she said. Daughters were not like sons. How I envied those kids whose Moms picked them up when they got hurt or sick! I fainted in Gym Class when they made me climb the rope. They shall hear of me no more.

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