He recoiled from the sting. ‘But it is entirely myself,’ she exclaimed aloud. No matter. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. She wrenched her head away from his grip and got her arm between his chest and hers. During detention she orchestrated Ray Plote's murder. Probably the latter, for the thronging ballroom was insufferably hot. Part of her even believed that her mother would have wanted her to stop feeling guilty and to be happy. The house will be well rid of him, for a more idle, good-for-nothing reprobate never crossed its threshold.
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