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 Mrs. Joe Green in her rubbers and her rain coat. Sometimes she didn't feel at all the Mrs. Green who has homemade raspberry jam and the biggest dahlias in Westlake, who has brought up those two children so wonderfully and gotten along on so little. "Good evening, Mr. Bascom! No, I don't believe it's really cleared up yet. Bad weather for colds—yes, indeed!" Mr. Bascom would be astonished if he knew that at this minute she was thinking of living in Paris, in the Latin Quarter—the Quartier Latin sur le—la?—le Rive Gauche. Painting in an attic studio among gray roofs, having café at round green tables on which chestnut blossoms fell. She longed to travel. She used to pore over the maps in the children's geographies, and she took so many travel books out of the library Miss Fish got quite interested. Some day, some day, she would go, she and Joe, when Charlotte was married—perhaps she'd better say if—still, Hartley Harrison was very attentive.

"Good evening, Mr. Hoare." I'm not what you think I am, Mr. Hoare, I'm not what anybody in Westlake thinks I am. But there's no way of showing except by painting—really serious painting. I believe I could do it that way. Autumn after next, when Joe goes to college, I'll have more time and space, and get back to it in earnest

A crescent moon in the sky reminded her to go in to the Vienna Bakery for crescent rolls, and there was Mrs. Driggs, with something like a pongee sponge bag