Wood required little pressing. The Becks were the best foster family that she had ever had. “Then let me be the judge of what is best,” she answered. She was not a Christian woman. Old thoughts, old feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned to me, and I have fancied myself happy,—as happy as I am now. Forgive me?” She pleaded. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat.
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