Nothing bored her so much
as the afternoon airings of the school under the eye of a teacher; and
these she turned into larks when she shared in them. Twice in one winter
she had hopped upon a passing street car and rolled away in triumph from
her meek and horrified companions and their outraged duenna. She
encouraged by means the subtlest, the attentions of a strange young
gentleman who followed the school's peregrinations afar off. She carried
on a brief correspondence with this cavalier, a fence corner in
Pennsylvania Street serving as post-office.
Luck favored her astonishingly in her efforts to escape the rigors of
school discipline. Just when she was forbidden to leave Miss Waring's to
spend nights and Sundays at Mrs. Owen's, her mother came to town and
opportunely (for Marian) fell ill, at the Whitcomb. Mrs. Bassett was
cruising languidly toward the sombre coasts of Neurasthenia, and though
she was under the supervision of a trained nurse, Marian made her
mother's illness an excuse for moving down to the hotel to take care of
her. Her father, in and out of the city caring for his multiplying
interests, objected mildly but acquiesced, which was simpler and more
comfortable than opposing her.
Having escaped from school and established herself at the Whitcomb,
Marian summoned Harwood to the hotel on the flimsiest pretexts, many of
them most ingeniously plausible.
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