The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. " "Not quite, I hope," rejoined Sheppard. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. ” “And they go?” “When they get the chance. ” She replied dryly.
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