“Veronica!” cried Miss Stanley, warningly, and, “Peter!” For a moment they seemed on the verge of an altogether desperate scuffle. "You are alone?" said one of the spinsters—Prudence Jedson. “What have you done to yourself?” he muttered. ‘Ain’t my place, I know that. ‘Well, she’d better learn fast if she wants any truck with me. Am I so forgettable?” He strode down the hall as she ran to catch up with him past lockers someone had painted an abysmal shade of gray blue. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. In the middle of the little town stood the shop of a Jew dealer in old clothes.
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