“I wonder which of us is right,” she said. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. “Before you do anything else I should advise you to secure those charred fragments of paper from the grate. And then she would find work. Guiltily, she felt very little for him, and yet she wondered what he would be like. ’ ‘That’s just it,’ said Joan Ibstock shamefacedly.
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