“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. Mauled about!” She fell to rubbing her insulted lips savagely with the back of her hand. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. I am dreadfully sad.
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