Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. But she wished she could put the thing she had done in some way to them so that it would not hurt them so much as the truth would certainly do. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. Apparently she was always doomed to weep when she talked to her father. She looked up and said, a little breathlessly, “I’m sorry, aunt, but I don’t think I can.
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