“Second class,” said some one, but first and second were all alike to her. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. They chatted pleasantly as he drove around the neighborhood for a half an hour, then stopped by the Diedermayer house. She heard her husband’s heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off.
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