It was in her eyes—the big thing that comes but once. Hetty, looking out of the window—she always smoked her after-breakfast cigarette at the window for the benefit of the less advanced section of Morningside Park society—and trying not to raise objections, saw Miss Stanley going down toward the shops. The funeral, it has just been said, took place on that day. When she came in after dinner that night, Ruth was no longer an interesting phenomenon, something figuratively to tear apart and investigate: she was talismanic. I thought it was a mirror at the first, for it was so very like myself. It wouldn’t be you.
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