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For a few moments, Thames regarded the little girl through the half-opened door in silence. His own heart was too full of melancholy foreboding. That might happen on her birthday—in August. Seldom they molested a woman who appeared to know where she was going and who kept her glance resolutely to the fore. Bottles and glasses usurped the place of dishes and plates. She sat in a chair in the parlour and regarded the darkening sky through the small casement window. She obeyed, extending her arm. Jackson’s.
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