She looked up and said, a little breathlessly, “I’m sorry, aunt, but I don’t think I can. I am your husband, though as yet your hand has scarcely lain in mine. He sat in much the same attitude, and she stood just as she had stood when he told her she could not go to the Fadden Dance. The mighty concourse became for a moment still. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise.
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