Her mother had prepared her for everything. "My mother!—my poor mother!" ejaculated Thames, falling on his knees, and bursting into tears. It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. She nursed at his neck as he peacefully slumbered through being killed. It was a bright and beautiful day: so bright, so beautiful, that even her sad heart was cheered by it. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. Neither of these wards had beds, and the unfortunate inmates were obliged to take their rest on the oaken floor. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard.
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