She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. She had thought that all Morningside Park householders came home before seven at the latest, as her father usually did. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. She was glad not to be baking in it anymore, or feeling the fiberglass splinters 64 invading her rear end from sitting on the bleachers.
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