Her mind developed into savage wrath at the present conditions of a woman’s life. Lucy sprinted to one side to avoid the crash and grabbed at Rhea’s solitary patch of yellow hair, which ripped out loosely in one decayed piece like strands of rotten corn silk. She had a vision of policemen, reproving magistrates, a crowded court, public disgrace. "Here's one of the thieves, Sir Rowland!" cried the attendant. The girl was pretty, and apparently a lady. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. “I might return the compliment, Courtlaw,” he answered, “by asking why the devil you come lurching on to the pavement like a drunken man. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. The day is already half over. Little woman, you have been brave enough before. I should know you—in Heaven or Hell. Perhaps that was the reason why she enjoyed preparing suppers at the Becks. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace. That is an evil place!” She cried.
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