" Figg turned aside to hide the tears that started to his eyes,—for the stout prizefighter, with a man's courage, had a woman's heart,—and the procession again set forward. Folks don’t like ’em. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. Wrap yourself in my cloak, and keep it. “I am sick of it.
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