Sheila pounded the kitchen table, causing the bell jar with the silk flowers to tip over and roll to the floor. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. Her sense followed the shoulders under his coat, down to where his flexible, sensitive-looking hand rested lightly upon the table. "Let us fly from this frightful place.
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