You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls. He looked at her guiltily. White assented. "And so you've given up all hope of escaping, eh, Jack?" remarked Hogarth. Then the long lashes sank demurely over them. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them.
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