She had removed her hat and utterly disarranged her already unruly black locks by running agitated fingers through them. 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. “Forgive my coming in,” she said to Ennison. " "Oh! certainly," answered Griffin; "certainly.
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