Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas. "You are an angel," she cried, with a look beaming with delight. “It really is not necessary. She paused. Stories … love stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true. She looked round wildly, as if seeking some source of help, as the boots halted at the front door and the shouting intensified. It doesn't look bad, does it?" "Mercy, no! That wasn't the thought.
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