” “What’s our lot?” asked her sister. His brows drew a little nearer together. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. The third time she escaped she reached the inconsequent barricade of the overturned table. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. It was the girl.
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