There was granite in her face and agate in her eyes. They compromised at length on the science course at the Tredgold Women’s College—she had already matriculated into London University from school—she came of age, and she bickered with her aunt for latch-key privileges on the strength of that and her season ticket. “If one half of the stories about Meysey Hill are true,” he answered, “I would not stretch out my little finger to save his life. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. Gina, the eleven year old, just couldn’t take it and she ran away. "And now, mark me. And she’s pluck to the backbone. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness.
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