Little Miss Severance sat with her hands as cold as ice. The stage
of her coming adventure was beautifully set - the conventional
stage for the adventure of a young girl, her mother's drawing-room.
Her mother had the art of setting stages. The room was not large, -
a New York brownstone front in the upper Sixties even though
altered as to entrance, and allowed to sprawl backward over yards
not originally intended for its use, is not a palace, - but it was
a room and not a corridor; you had the comfortable sense of four
walls about you when its one small door was once shut. It was
filled, perhaps a little too much filled, with objects which seemed
to have nothing in common except beauty; but propinquity,
propinquity of older date than the house in which they now were,
had given them harmony. Nothing in the room was modern except some
uncommonly comfortable sofas and chairs, and the pink and yellow
roses that stood about in Chinese bowls.
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