The Jew got in first. He picked her up outside her last period Ceramics class. F. Anna, who had sung the first verse of her song, looked around the house, a little surprised at the absence of the applause which had never yet failed her. Even given that he was hopelessly enamoured of the wench, a fact which was obvious to the meanest intelligence. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed huskily.
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