“Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. “So Mr. ” To remain, she felt, was to concede everything. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. Sheppard, whose maternal fears drew her in another direction, hurried off to the Mint.
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