I went to Meg Van Dam, who had long urged me to pay her a visit.
Meg paced the floor a minute, then slapped herself into a chair.
I dashed into my room but Meg's staccato reached me even there.
Perhaps I shouldn't have let her talk so about Meg, but, after all, she told me nothing new.
Meg, at sixteen, had received so little from life that her expectations were of the humblest.
In vain did Meg plead, almost with tears, that he would do nothing of the kind.
Hitherto Meg's experience had been that it was a thing to be slurred over, like a deformity.
At the end of the first year Meg ceased to receive any lessons.
Later in the evening she received a telegram from Jan announcing Meg's whereabouts.
Meg, tell me, what did Hannah say when she saw your poor shorn head?