Once over the iron spikes, Bess exhibited no reluctance to be let down on the other side of the wall. She tolerated spitballs in her curly hair and had to buy a new backpack when hers was stolen. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better.
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