She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. Then Gosse spoke again, answering the question in her mind. A good deal of the food will be in tins. She perceived she had never really thought of any one but herself in all her acts and plans. For all that, it is folly.
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