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\"I'll have to call and tell Cathy. . ’ ‘Oui, mais—safe. ‘His granddaughter?’ ‘Yes, his son’s daughter. As she crossed the square, almost within a stone’s throw of her lodgings, she came face to face with Courtlaw. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back. She made a curious movement toward her niece, then suddenly, convulsively, she dabbed down something lumpy on the table and turned to follow her brother.
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