“Forgive my coming in,” she said to Ennison. 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. They turned the last corner, and almost immediately a man who had been standing there turned and struck Ennison a violent blow on the cheek.
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