“And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. It is better as it is. You love money. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. A little darling? Lord in heaven, he had taken leave of his senses. They took her fingerprints sitting at the gray metal desk of Officer Nolte, the virile young buck who had brought her in.
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