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she could think of some way of getting at its history in a properly
colorless and indifferent way. Presently she made a venture. She said:
"
Whatever a man's age may be, he can reduce it several years by putting a
bright-colored flower in his button-hole. I have often noticed that.
Is that your sex's reason for wearing a boutonniere?"
"I fancy not, but certainly that reason would be a sufficient one. I've
never heard of the idea before."
"
You seem to prefer pinks. Is it on account of the color, or the form?"
Oh no," he said, simply, "they are given to me. I don't think I have
"
any preference."
"
They are given to him," she said to herself, and she felt a coldness
toward that pink. "I wonder who it is, and what she is like." The
flower began to take up a good deal of room; it obtruded itself
everywhere, it intercepted all views, and marred them; it was becoming
exceedingly annoying and conspicuous for a little thing. "I wonder if he
cares for her." That thought gave her a quite definite pain.
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