"Friday!" echoed Mrs. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. The silence grew unbearable, so she asked, \"What is your surname, John?\" \"My surname? You mean my last name?\" \"Yes. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. She knew now that he never would.
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