“Propriety?” Mama held up Minerva’s ungloved hand, displaying the earth embedded under her fingernails. ” Desperate, Minerva cast about for some other excuse. “It’s mild, compared to last week’s rain.” “Mama, can’t we go back to the rooming house? The weather’s so dire.” The closer they drew to the tavern and the revelry within, the more her sense of dread increased. She’d felt so at home here, so comfortable. The villagers didn’t care if Minerva dug in the dirt, or wandered down the country paths with the breeze whipping through her hair and an open book before her face. Whether sickly, scholarly, or scandalous-the young women here were all misfits of one kind or another. Spindle Cove, this seaside resort for young ladies of gentle breeding and, well, interesting character. Lately, it seemed the one who best understood Minerva wasn’t a person at all, but a place. Even before last night’s humiliation, she’d long reconciled herself to the fact. No, Mama, Minerva thought, trudging her way along the path.
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