The afternoon had passed now into twilight. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. At length, about three o'clock, as the first glimmer of dawn became visible through the barred casements of the round-house, the rattling of bolts and chains at the outer door told that some one was admitted. I’m sorry. The gong will go at seven-thirty.
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