And letters never
really said things--it mustn't be letters--besides, she thought, humbly, it
would be so awful to have Oliver send letters back unopened. Two weeks of
pure Mrs. Winters had chastened Nancy to an unusual degree.
For all that though, it was not until Mrs. Winters had left her alone for
the evening after offering her an invitation to attend a little discussion
group that met Wednesday evenings and read literary papers at each other,
an invitation which Nancy somewhat stubbornly declined, that she finally
made up her mind. Then she sighed and went to the telephone again.
"Mr. Oliver Crowe? He is away on a visit just at present but we expect him
back tomorrow afternoon." Margaret is pretending for her own satisfaction
over the wire that the Crowes have a maid. "Who is calling, please?"
Rather shakily, "A f-friend."
Briskly. "I understand. Well, he will be back tomorrow. Is that all that
you wished to inquire? No message?"
"Good-by then," and again Nancy thinks that things simply will not be
dramatic no matter how hard she tries.
She decides to take a small walk however--small because she simply must
get to bed before Mrs.
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