" "True," replied the widow, upon whom all the terrible recollections of the day before crowded, "I know it isn't. She spoke readily enough, but there was a new timidity in her manner. He looked exactly as she had dreamed him, handsome, rigidly dressed in a black suit, his hair still half gray, his eyes green and flashing like a cat’s. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman. She liked to do it for Cathy Beck, so that she could relax after waitressing all day at the Big Apple with a homemade meal. She’s hated me for no apparent reason ever since Fourth Grade. They agreed to lend her their hold-all and a large, formless bag which they called the communal trunk.
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