Just then—I was nervous. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. Everybody looked askance at everybody else. Rhea’s head exploded into a spray of blood, brain, and bone. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. ‘Think I’m fool enough to do my business in a convent?’ he said scornfully. I want you to understand clearly that I was indebted to the man in many small ways. CHAPTER XXI.
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