I suppose I ought to have been a man. A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her. A few more minutes, and she was safe. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. He jumped back, cursing. She crushed the letter in her hand. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had.
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