I was puzzled and somehow, deeply wounded, when the ice slushed beneath my laced boots and steeped the hem of my dress in frigidity. It seemed to move through my heavy skirts, passed my bodice, and into my heart--which froze promptly upon contact.
To the tone of the church bells about Eliot's pulpit, I perceived Mr. Hollingsworth (once promised to me in an unofficial but nevertheless sacred engagement) arm in arm with the young Priscilla. Eyes sparkling like the puddles she hopped over, Priscilla melted like a snowflake into Mr. Hollingsworth's half embrace.
I might have stared a bit too long for decency, but then again, what I did next wasn't very decent.
Pretending to retrieve a hair pin, I stooped and slipped off a soggy boot, then hurled it with all of my might. She made the most lovely noise when it struck her in the face, but I must admit that I missed. I had been aiming for him.
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