Seven hundred forty-two dollars and eighty-one cents, the sum total of her money in the world that she hid in a filigreed cigar box shelved behind her schoolbooks. She breathed deeply of the starch of his shirt. "Don't scourge me," she cried, trying to hide herself in the farthest corner of the cell. He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver.
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