She would just walk out of the house and go. She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. The sky periodically pummeled her with hail pellets as she would pass through the deserted intersections. Teaching the word of God to the recent cannibal, caring for the sick, storming the strongholds of the plague, adding his own private income to the pittance allowed him by the Society, and never seeing the angel that walked at his side! Something the girl knew nothing about; else Enschede was unbelievable. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Only one penny—two copies—two pence—thank you, Sir.
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