His light brown hair was almost crew cut short. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Amid a litter of nails without heads, screws without worms, and locks without wards, lay a glue-pot and an oilstone, two articles which their owner was wont to term "his right hand and his left. " She kindled with sympathy. Her father for fifteen years, and you now for the rest of her life! Tell her you're a thief. To lose was death, quickly and mercilessly delivered.
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