She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. " "A child!" thought Wood; it must be the fugitive Darrell. ‘Nevertheless, he will neither help me, nor will I seek his help. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. She’s right upstairs. It had a tiny flaw, most bizarre.
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