Shari draped herself lazily upon her unmade bed. “Does he never speak to you of—of old times?” she faltered. ‘You wouldn’t know one end of a pistol from the other. You, for instance, you live, you are not afraid to live. She was aware of the body of the court, of clerks seated at a black table littered with papers, of policemen standing about stiffly with expressions of conscious integrity, and a murmuring background of the heads and shoulders of spectators close behind her. A crowd was collected round the fellow, who was rapidly disposing of his stock.
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