Five weeks from the night Judith faced her election in Mrs. Prewitt’s cracked looking glass while dressing to go to the theatre she sat before the mirror in what the Tomlinson’s called the Bird’s-eye-maple room. The face that looked back at her seemed to belong to a different person. Gone was the taut anxiety of the mouth, the pin-point sharpness of eyes worn with contriving. For the first time since her father’s death Judith Amory knew the luxury of a home.
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