She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. Such apartments as she saw were either scandalously dirty or unaccountably dear, or both. “I won’t go home,” she said; “I won’t!” and she evaded the clutch of the fatherly policeman and tried to thrust herself past him in the direction of that big portal. I've been hunting for this particular job for a thousand years!" She smiled a little sadly over this fine enthusiasm; for in her wisdom she had a clear perception where it would eventually end—in the veranda chair. It simply doesn’t count. A Hand that strove to reach his shoulder, relentless, soulless but lawful. “Quite on my own,” she said. Her eyelids fluttered with recognition, and she cried out softly.
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