On street corners and in store
lounging-places the men talked, too, and wept--though not so
openly. And neither the talking nor the weeping grew less when
fast on the heels of the news itself, came Nancy's pitiful story
that Pollyanna, face to face with what had come to her, was
bemoaning most of all the fact that she could not play the game;
that she could not now be glad over--anything.
It was then that the same thought must have, in some way, come to
Pollyanna's friends. At all events, almost at once, the mistress
of the Harrington homestead, greatly to her surprise, began to
receive calls: calls from people she knew, and people she did
not know; calls from men, women, and children--many of whom Miss
Polly had not supposed that her niece knew at all.
Some came in and sat down for a stiff five or ten minutes. Some
stood awkwardly on the porch steps, fumbling with hats or
hand-bags, according to their sex. Some brought a book, a bunch
of flowers, or a dainty to tempt the palate. Some cried frankly.
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