She brought the cups of cocoa back to the bedroom. “Why? Do you think I’m a stoner?” He asked. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. I know there’s a sort of right in your impatience at the slowness of Progress. Here and there, a building might be seen with the doors and windows driven in, and all access to it prevented by the heaps of bricks and tilesherds.
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