Mrs. Burrage had come to spend a few
days near her son; she was staying at an hotel in Boston. It presented
itself to Olive that after this entertainment it would be an act of
courtesy to call upon her; but here, at least, was the comfort that she
could cover herself with the general absolution extended to the Boston
temperament and leave her alone. It was slightly provoking, indeed, that
Mrs. Burrage should have so much the air of a New Yorker who didn't
particularly notice whether a Bostonian called or not; but there is ever
an imperfection, I suppose, in even the sweetest revenge. She was a
woman of society, large and voluminous, fair (in complexion) and
regularly ugly, looking as if she ought to be slow and rather heavy, but
disappointing this expectation by a quick, amused utterance, a short,
bright, summary laugh, with which she appeared to dispose of the joke
(whatever it was) for ever, and an air of recognising on the instant
everything she saw and heard. She was evidently accustomed to talk, and
even to listen, if not kept waiting too long for details and
parentheses; she was not continuous, but frequent, as it were, and you
could see that she hated explanations, though it was not to be supposed
that she had anything to fear from them.
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