“But your sister?” he asked. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace. It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face. Mr. They are long gone. It cuts.
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