She gloried in it: he needed her. . "Von't you hear me?—ough! ough!" demanded Sharples, after a pause. 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. ’ If you engage me it must be upon my own merits. ’ ‘That wasn’t my fault.
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