Between herself and yonder evil mind she had the strongest buckler God could give—love. He accepted this confession conditionally: that no young man had kissed her. The fellow Kimble, to whom Gerald was indebted, was gaping. “My dear Anna,” he answered. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house.
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