Poppy didn't know it, but her name was no longer Poppylinda. It was
Fifine.
That night Missy went to bed in her own little room in Cherryvale;
but, strange as it may seem to you, she spent the hours till waking
far across the sea, in a manor-house in baronial England.
After that, for a considerable period, only the body, the husk of
her, resided in Cherryvale; the spirit, the pulsing part of her, was
in the land of her dreams. Events came and passed and left her
unmarked. Even the Evans elopement brought no thrill; the affair of
a youth who clerks in a bank and a girl who works in a post office
is tame business to one who has been participating in the panoplied
romances of the high-born.
Missy lived, those days, to dream in solitude or to go to Tess's
where she might read of further enchantments. Then, too, at Tess's,
she had a confidante, a kindred spirit, and could speak out of what
was filling her soul. There is nothing more satisfying than to be
able to speak out of what is filling your soul. The two of them got
to using a special parlance when alone.
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