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The first breath of spring was in the air, softening the chill of the crowded streets with warming sunshine and a hint of the coming miracle of the yearly resurrection. The shops were filled with the crisp, fresh-tinted goods of the nearing season, and here and there among the smartly dressed women was a modish straw hat brightening the winter furs and velvets. Patricia's cup was full and running over. She had no need for speech with Elinor, but she kept giving her hands quick little squeezes in her muff, while now and again they exchanged swift telegraphic glances of appreciation. "Yah!" cried Battersea, derisively. "You're out of it. My mother white; but my father--" here he hesitated, and then resumed: "Yes, you're right. Dido; my father was a negro! A Seedee boy, who was a fireman on a P. and O. liner." "It's not fair, till Elinor comes, too!" she protested hotly. "Wait, they'll be back. I'll call them.".
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Conrad
"Bless you, no, child," she said lightly. "I merely thought he would be more apt to be like your oldest sister, whom I admire tremendously, as everyone knows." "We'll be along in a little while," replied Patricia easily. "Save a seat for us if you can." "Thank you, major. Good-by for the present." "A discovery. What is it?".
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