Abruptly the sterner look vanished and she twinkled. Martha had the square look of solid English citizenry, which was not deceiving. "Couldn't you speak to him?" "What?—and be insulted for my trouble? No, thank you!" "That is it. “What can one say?” she exclaimed. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace.
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