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Stanley came home at a quarter to six—an earlier train by fifteen minutes than he affected—his sister met him in the hall with a hushed expression. “The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter. “Second class,” said some one, but first and second were all alike to her. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. Good night. I don’t care what divides us.
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