A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. " "Well, think no more about it," returned Thames. There he was, standing with a group of men who she presumed to be the other richest men in the world. Her aunt went out of the room with dignity and a rustle, and up-stairs to the fastness of her own room. ‘Exactly like my father.
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