" At the sound of his voice every vestige of colour fled from Winifred's cheeks, and the work upon which she was engaged fell from her hand. With a well-simulated unconcern and a heightened color she finished her breakfast. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. Living, he knew that he would never send that letter. Brutes! They are the brute still with us! Science some day may teach us a way to do without them. But in the train going home her aunt reasoned it out.
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