In the warm June weather Miss Schenectady and Joe still linger in town.
The old lady has no new-fangled notions about taxes, and though she is
rich and has a pretty place near Newport, she will not go there until she
is ready, no, not for all the tax-gatherers in Massachusetts. As for Joe,
she does not want to go away. Urgent letters come by every mail entreating
her to return to England in time for a taste of the season in London, but
they lie unanswered on her table, and often she does not read more than
half of what they contain. The books and the letters accumulate in her
room, and she takes no thought whether she reads them or not, for the time
is weary on her hands and she only wishes it gone, no matter how.
Nevertheless she will not go home, and she even begs her aunt not to leave
Boston yet.
She is paler than she was and her face looks thin. She says she is well
and as strong as ever, but the elasticity is gone from her step, and the
light has faded in her brown eyes, so that one might meet her in the
street and hardly know her.
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