She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. Without Sheila, the denizens of the neighborhood might forget they had the ability to communicate with each other. “We don’t let to ladies,” they said. She had remained patently unavailable to him. Montressor’s guests.
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