At first she could not tell what it was; but as her eyes became accustomed to the light, she recognized the old coat. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. I hate what I have to do to survive. "You know what I mean," said the trader, gravely.
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