” “I cannot let you go on,” Ennison interrupted. She didn’t know anything more about your mom. His red hair marked him, cut short into a round shape that had the texture of a Brillo pad. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. A sprinkling of callow youths, and a couple of pronounced young Jews, who were talking loudly together in some unintelligible jargon of the City. At the bottom of the trunk was a large manila envelope, unmarked. Sheppard. She didn’t like the shops, she didn’t like the other women’s faces; she thought the smirking men in frock-coats who dominated these establishments the most intolerable persons she had ever had to face.
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