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Sheppard made an effort to speak, but her voice was choked by emotion. “You have dyed your hair and darkened your eyebrows. At that, the girl jumped up. “Well, well, Martin. It was obviously pitched well, hitting her head at a good thirtyfive miles per hour. " "It is false," cried Mrs. Fancy, as they say hereabouts!" What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window. He was yellow and coarse of hair; flea-bitten, too; and even as he smiled at Ruth and wagged his stumpy tail, he was forced to turn savagely upon one of these disturbers who had no sense of the fitness of things. That it provided proof of the girl’s identity was one thing. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling.
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