We're lost. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. She got into rows through meddling with their shoes and tennis-rackets, and had moments of carefully concealed admiration when she was privileged to see them just before her bedtime, rather radiantly dressed in white or pink or amber and prepared to go out with her mother. ’ ‘It is true,’ insisted the lady. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. Honestly, I never did.
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