The next hour makes, or mars you for ever. . ‘Then it is that you will have pity? Here we have come, we poor, for aid. If I’m late again I’ll have to serve another detention!” She excused herself, hoping it was not too obvious she was running away. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. She met him by the dugout after the game.
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