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Them young prigs is all alike. You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls. “Could you play ‘Fiddler on the Roof’?” father Thomas pleaded. She seemed to have no idea whatever of the emotional states that were becoming to her age and position. I am aware that you ran away from there, but—’ ‘Certainly I ran away,’ she said, meeting his gaze with defiance in her own.
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