” “There’s Miss Garvice. She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn’t it—wasn’t it rather in some respects—rather a lark? It’s one of my regrets for my lost youth. She is more dear to me than anything else. 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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