Deborah waved good-bye from the porch of the mission house. “Impossible to consider marriage!” The verdict repeated itself over and over in her thoughts as she stood at the front of the classroom. “Look, Ginny dear, forty-nine divided by seven is nine. You’ve made a mistake.” “No, I haven’t, teacher, forty-nine divided by seven is seven, really!” “Oh, I seem to be kind of mixed up today.” “Impossible to consider marriage!” “Look, Jose, pick up the paper you just dropped by my desk.” “That’s not paper, teacher, it’s your handkerchief. You look as though you had been crying, teacher. Are you sick? Shall I call Dona Loide? You are sick.” “No, no, I’m all right. Thank you, Jose. Now you may sit down.” It was a long day until the hour came when, in the privacy of her room, she could fling herself onto her knees and let the tempest of her soul dissolve itself into scalding tears.
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