How did it come that a lanky, gangling kid in her tees had been paid a visit by the son of possibly the most cultured and influential family of the city, people of prestige, comfortable wealth, and unlimited popularity?
For four years she had struggled to gain an entrance in some way into Louise Whiting's intimate circle of friends, and she had ended by shutting the door on the only son of the family.

And why had she ever allowed Linda to keep the runabout?
It was not proper that a young girl should own a high powered car like that.

It was not proper that she should drive it and go racing around the country, heaven knew where, and with heaven knew whom.
Eileen bit her lip until it almost bled.

Her eyes were hateful and her hands were nervous as she reviewed the past week.

She might think any mean thing that a mean brain could conjure up, but when she calmed down to facts she had to admit that there was not a reason in the world why Linda should not drive the car she had driven for her father, or why she should not take with her Donald Whiting or Peter Morrison or Henry Anderson.