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III
My Aunt Lydia and I arrived at the Jersey City station on the day before Christmas—a soft, grey December morning, with a little snow falling. Myra Henshawe was there to meet us; very handsome, I thought, as she came walking rapidly up the platform, her plump figure swathed in furs,—a fur hat on her head, with a single narrow garnet feather sticking out behind, like the pages’ caps in old story-books. She was not alone. She was
