She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. ‘—without telling her why,’ he finished, ignoring the interjection. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. "What's to be done next?" cried Blueskin, returning to Rachel, who was standing with Edgeworth Bess near the door. It was a second reminder that against her claim to go free and untrammelled there was a case to be made, that after all it was true that a girl does not go alone in the world unchallenged, nor ever has gone freely alone in the world, that evil walks abroad and dangers, and petty insults more irritating than dangers, lurk. Norris. Good night.
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