Darrell attempted to reply. 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. “Agreed,” he said with queer exaltation, and his grip tightened on her hand. She had seen her really only at teas, with the Stanley strain in her uppermost. He'll be here two or three days.
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