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She knew now that he never would. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. "How goes it?" he began, heartily. He had looked at it before without comprehension. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. She clenched her hands together and leaned forward in her chair, gazing steadily into the fire. Courtlaw stood up. " "Why what will she say?" inquired Sheppard.
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