175 “Before you tell me the whole story,” she emphasized the penultimate word, “just let me do something for you. Maggot. Jack Kimble. Babies and females have got to keep hold of somebody or go under—anyhow, for the next few generations. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn.
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