‘Jacques! This—this bête he attacks me, and you stand there and you do nothing. Bodies! Bodies! Horrible things! We are souls. It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard.
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