" "Of course," rejoined Kneebone, a little maliciously, "but that's easily accounted for. So long. You have betrayed me. Miss Moffatt, the history and moral instruction mistress, was particularly explicit upon this score, and they all agreed in indicating contempt and pity for girls whose minds ran on such matters, and who betrayed it in their conversation or dress or bearing. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. But they did not know how good she was, how perfect she was. ‘Go then. I can vouch for that.
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