An instant later anger burned in her heart, for she
saw that the car was driven by Rose Stribling. Even a glimpse of that
flaunting pink hollyhock of a woman was sufficient to ruffle the placid
current of Corinna's thoughts. Could she never forget? Must she, who
had long ago ceased to love the man, still be enslaved to resentment
against the woman?
With an ample grace, Mrs. Stribling descended from the car, and crossed
the pavement to the flagged walk which led to the white door of the old
print shop. In her trimly fitting dress of blue serge, with her small
straw hat ornamented by stiff black quills, she looked fresher, harder,
more durably glazed than ever. A slight excess, too deep a carmine in
her smooth cheeks, too high a polish on her pale gold hair, too thick a
dusk on her lashes; this was the only flaw that one could detect in her
appearance. If men liked that sort of thing, and they apparently did,
Corinna reflected, then they could scarcely complain of an emphasis on
perfection.
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