But in the train going home her aunt reasoned it out. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. " "Don't say so," cried Mrs. Died short, I suppose, and the girls had to shift for themselves.
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