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She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. The Mohocks. “Miss Pellissier,” he said, “I came here this afternoon hoping particularly to see you for a few moments before you signed that contract.
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