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"I do. And what is to become of you when I am not here to get you out of your scrapes, or of Gertrude without me to check her inveterate snobbishness, is more than I can foresee." "I am not snobbish," said Gertrude, "although I do not choose to make friends with everyone. But I never objected to you, Agatha." "No; I should like to catch you at it. Hallo, Jane!" (who had suddenly burst into tears): "what's the matter? I trust you are not permitting yourself to take the liberty of crying for me." "Indeed," sobbed Jane indignantly, "I know that I am a f--fool for my pains. You have no heart." "You certainly are a f--fool, as you aptly express it," said Agatha, passing her arm round Jane, and disregarding an angry attempt to shake it off; "but if I had any heart it would be touched by this proof of your attachment." "I never said you had no heart," protested Jane; "but I hate when you speak like a book." "You hate when I speak like a book, do you? My dear, silly old Jane! I shall miss you greatly." "Yes, I dare say," said Jane, with tearful sarcasm. "At least my snoring will never keep you awake again." "You don't snore, Jane. We have been in a conspiracy to make you believe that you do, that's all. Isn't it good of me to tell you?" Jane was overcome by this revelation. After a long pause, she said with deep conviction, "I always knew that I didn't. Oh, the way you kept it up! I solemnly declare that from this time forth I will believe nobody." "Well, and what do you think of it all?" said Agatha, transferring her attention to Gertrude, who was very grave. "I think--I am now speaking seriously, Agatha--I think you are in the wrong." "Why do you think that, pray?" demanded Agatha, a little roused. "You must be, or Miss Wilson would not be angry with you. Of course, according to your own account, you are always in the right, and everyone else is always wrong; but you shouldn't have written that in the book. You know I speak as your friend." "And pray what does your wretched little soul know of my motives and feelings?" "It is easy enough to understand you," retorted Gertrude, nettled. "Self-conceit is not so uncommon that one need be at a loss to recognize it. And mind, Agatha Wylie," she continued, as if goaded by some unbearable reminiscence, "if you are really going, I don't care whether we part friends or not. I have not forgotten the day when you called me a spiteful cat." "I have
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