‘I can take care of myself, bête. '—'What is it, Mint?' asked all three. “She”, you say. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. She felt that she was not alone. Drawing the pay of life and then not living. All at once her heart began to patter queerly.
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