Our ideal had fallen. 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. Once over the iron spikes, Bess exhibited no reluctance to be let down on the other side of the wall. “I am tired,” she said, “and I want to rest. The Magdalene.
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