Montague Hill was taken for the millionaire once or twice, and I suppose it flattered his vanity. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. Sudden indignation boiled up in him.
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