Velma admired Vesta. Always collected, reading voraciously, undeterred by gossip or the tag ‘spinster,’ conservatively but impeccably dressed. This evening’s partywear was in character, neck and ankles at either end of a grey-green wool crepe suit. Unwrinkled and completely buttoned as always. Velma watched the countryside urbanize before her eyes, sneaking darting glances at her driver. Vesta made evenpaced smalltalk looking across unwaveringly. At the party they went their separate ways, Velma thinking about Vesta and Vesta thinking about George Eliot.
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