Soot was everywhere, for the lamp would not stay trimmed in the gale. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face.
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