“I mean to go to that dance!” she blubbered. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. Did he see him, this Monsieur Charvill?’ ‘I don’t rightly know, miss,’ confessed Kimble. In the middle of the little town stood the shop of a Jew dealer in old clothes.
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