There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. “Gods!” cried Ann Veronica, and kept him standing. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman’s outlook. I’ve never had a homemade Thanksgiving meal like that. It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country.
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