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MOLLIE'S BOYHOOD.
BY SARAH E. CHESTER.
A little girl sat squeezed in between an old fat man and his old bony
wife in a crowded hall on a sultry evening in October. On one side it
was as if feather pillows loomed above her with intent to smother; on
the other, sharp elbows came into distressing contact with her ribs.
The windows were open; but the hall had not been built with reference
to transmitting draughts on suffocating nights for the benefit of
packed audiences; and everybody gasped for breath, though everybody
fanned--that is, everybody who had a fan, a newspaper, a hat, or a
starched handkerchief. Mollie had neither fan, newspaper, hat, nor
handkerchief, and yet she of all the audience gasped unawares. She was
stifled, but happy. Elbows and bad air might do their worst; her body
suffered, but her spirit soared. She was lifted above her neighbors,
into an atmosphere where she was conscious of nothing but the
eloquence that fell in such soft tones from the lips of the beautiful
woman on the stage.
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