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. But in the train going home her aunt reasoned it out. This obstacle removed, he thought he might now make the attempt. I don’t want to Bowdlerize Shakespeare. Such ambitions as he had were stereotyped and material. “And I have dragged you all over here for nothing,” she murmured.
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