Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. 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. Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face.
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