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Missy by Dana Gatlin
page 61 of 353 (17%)

What matters the vain things of Earth, soon or late,
If the heart of a loved one in anguish doth break?


When she came to the triumphant close, among the fragrant cherry
blooms the birds were twittering their lullabies. She went in to say
her own good night, the Poem, much erased and interlined, tucked in
the front of her blouse together with ineffable sensations. But she
was not, for all that, beyond a certain concern for material
details. "Mother, may I do my hair up in kid-curlers?" she asked.

"Why, this is only Wednesday." Mother's tone connoted the fact that
"waves," rippling artificially either side of Missy's "part" down to
her two braids, achieved a decorative effect reserved for Sundays
and special events. Then quickly, perhaps because she hadn't been
altogether unaware of this last visitation of the Heavenly Muse, she
added: "Well, I don't care. Do it up, if you want to."

Then, moved by some motive of her own, she followed Missy upstairs
to do it up herself. These occasions of personal service were rare,
these days, since Missy had grown big and efficient, and were
therefore deeply cherished. But to-night Missy almost regretted her
mother's unexpected ministration; for the paper in her blouse
crackled at unwary gestures, and if mother should protract her stay
throughout the undressing period, there might come an awkward call
for explanations.

And mother, innocently, added one more element to her entangled
burden of distress.
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