special problems. But nothing, really, came out to her satisfaction.
There was, notably, no one she might ask. Her mother, approached
seriously, declared that Linda gave her the creeps; while others
made it plain that it was their duty to repress the forwardness
inevitable from the scandalous neglect of her upbringing.

They, the women of the Boscombe, glancing at their finger-nails
stained and buffed to a shining pale vermilion, lightly rubbing
their rings on the dry palm of a hand, wondered pessimistically
within Linda's hearing what could come out of such an association.
That term, she vaguely gathered, referred to her mother. The latter
evidently interested them tremendously; because, she explained, they
had no affairs of their own to attend to. This was perfectly clear
to Linda until Mrs. Condon further characterized them as "busy."

The women, stopped by conventions from really satisfactory
investigation at the source, drew her on occasion into a laboriously
light inquisition. How long would Linda and her mama stay at the
Boscombe? Had they closed their apartment? Where was it? Hadn't Mrs.
Condon mentioned Cleveland? Wasn't Linda lonely with her mama out so
much--they even said late--in rolling chairs? Had she ever seen Mr.
Jasper before his arrival last week?

No, of course she hadn't.

Here they exchanged skeptical glances beneath relentlessly pulled
eyebrows. He was really very nice, Mr. Jasper. Linda in a matter-of-fact
voice replied that he had given her a twenty-dollar gold piece. Mr.
Jasper was very generous. But perhaps he had rewarded her for being
a good little girl and not--not bothering or hanging about. "Why