“I’m going for a long tramp, auntie,” she said. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she panted, shifting wildly in his hold, so that he had all to do to keep her thus imprisoned. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones. Thank you for the books.
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