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"So you did," replied the prize-fighter. She tolerated spitballs in her curly hair and had to buy a new backpack when hers was stolen. There was no one stirring in the flats. Sheppard, who had again looked round towards her son, beheld a hand glance along the side of the woollendraper. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes.
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