“How old are you?” “Sixteen. She was about to rush to his side, when she saw his clenched hands rise and fall upon the sand repeatedly. She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. But she had spent nearly half of it, and had no conception of how such a sum could be made good again. She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. She brought her face to his chest, turning her head sideways so he would not notice her elongated canines.
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