The afternoon had passed now into twilight. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. “He can’t be more than thirty. The ruffian caught hold of her hair, and held her fast. Give me that precious charge," he added, snatching the bundle from Wood. You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls.
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