Not if I read her aright. A lean young man in spectacles pursued her for some time, crying “Courage! Courage!” Somebody threw a dab of mud at her, and some of it got down her neck. We smirk, and we’re a bit—furtive. She must be beautiful, but beauty is only the beginning. By and by he gathered enough courage to lean toward her. The chair was torture. "For what?" "I had the paper with me.
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