THE GAY COCKADE
Anne tilted her chin. "I don't see what he finds in me."
"You're young"—with a tinge of bitterness—"and he says you are beautiful."
Anne threw off the covers and set her bare feet on the floor. "Beautiful!" she scoffed, but went to the mirror. "I'm thin," she meditated, "but I've got nice hair."
"We all have nice hair," said Amy; "but you've got Ethel's complexion and my figure."
"I don't think I want to be loved for my complexion." Anne turned suddenly and faced her sister. "Or my figure. I'd rather be loved for my mind."
"Men don't love women for their minds," said Amy wearily. "You'll learn that when you have lived as long as I have. Get back into bed, Anne. You'll freeze."
But Anne, shivering in the cotton kimono, argued the question hotly: "I should think Murray would want to marry someone with congenial tastes. He hates everything that I like."
"He'll make an excellent husband. You ought to be happy to know that he—cares."
She began to cough—a racking cough that left her exhausted.
Anne, bending over her, said, "Why, Amy, are you sick?"
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