She pointed hither and yon, smiled and shook her head. "Who are you?" inquired Mrs. . The less she lived, in fact, the better. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. You know you do, Annabel. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. Her faithful servant struggled, with her assistance, to rise.
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