" "Those terms were a third of my estate," observed Trenchard bitterly. She thought gleefully of the dress she would get to wear for the Ball (Prom?) and could not wait to tell her foster family about how excited she was. The houses were older, the shops gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the crowd, the street-like air was the same. He couldn't have taken Mr. Blackness was beginning to consume the cornfield. ‘And so you sneak back,’ she threw at him, ‘like the jackal that you are. She must kill this man, or kill herself.
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