Her father read a draft prospectus warily, and her aunt dropped fragments of her projects for managing while the cook had a holiday. “Please stop, cabman,” she ordered. As to his mother, I've no pity for her. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. She crept into the living room and turned off the set, adjusting Cathy’s blanket which had fallen to the carpeted floor. CHAPTER XVIII.
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