‘Well! I hadn’t no notion as he’d got hisself married again. The picture of Mary Remenham was still on the wall. Wood. What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. Me, you may have. She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. Her eyes were soft and grave, and there was the faintest of smiles upon her resolute lips. ’ ‘Parbleu,’ exclaimed the girl, jumping up in some dudgeon.
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