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 “I suppose they’ll take them off when they really begin to trot,” said Priscilla, “but I know they’ll take their knitting with them everywhere. They simply couldn’t be parted from it. They will walk about Westminster Abbey and knit, I feel sure. Meanwhile, Anne, we shall be living in Patty’s Place—and on Spofford Avenue. I feel like a millionairess even now.”

“I feel like one of the morning stars that sang for joy,” said Anne.

Phil Gordon crept into Thirty-eight, St. John’s, that night and flung herself on Anne’s bed.

“Girls, dear, I’m tired to death. I feel like the man without a country—or was it without a shadow? I forget which. Anyway, I’ve been packing up.”

“And I suppose you are worn out because you couldn’t decide which things to pack first, or where to put them,” laughed Priscilla.

“E-zackly. And when I had got everything jammed in somehow, and my landlady and her maid had both sat on it while I locked it, I discovered I had packed a whole lot of things I wanted for Convocation at the very bottom. I had to unlock the old thing and poke and dive into it for an hour before I fished out what I wanted. I would get hold of something that felt like what I was looking for, and I’d yank it up, and it would be something else. No, Anne, I did swear.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“Well, you looked it. But I admit my thoughts