Mr. “You poor little girl!” he cried. The doctor smoked his pipe thoughtfully. She munched her bland Whopper as he wolfed three in a row, stuffing his mouth with half a dozen French fries at a time. The latter request, though treated with supreme contempt by Mr. It is no fault of your own that you are not at this moment standing there with your head blown off. “But don’t you know about me?” he said at last. “How I am to earn enough sous for my dinner to-morrow—or failing that, what I can sell. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. He noted that she was fully dressed, that her hair was carefully done, that there was a knotted ribbon around her throat.
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