"Where are the packets committed to your charge by Sir Rowland Trenchard?" "The packets!" exclaimed Kneebone, in alarm. “Really,” she said. Her sleepless night had left her languid but not stupefied, and for an hour or so the work distracted her altogether from her troubles. I wonder what men would say if we threw the mask aside—if we really told them what WE thought of them, really showed them what WE were. . She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping.
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