"What for?" rejoined Quilt, evasively. Also she made little pussy-like sounds of a reassuring nature. But of what avail is this? You have no execution, no finish. She held out her arm straight before her, and turned her hand this way and that. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. She screamed involuntarily—she had never in her life screamed before—and then she began to wriggle and fight like a frightened animal against the men who were holding her.
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