She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him. Under this unnerving scrutiny, a slow flush mounted to the woman’s cheeks. I have always been lonely.
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