She had nothing to say for herself. Now it is—’ ‘What are you doing still here, missie, that’s what I’d like to know?’ demanded the man Trodger, sticking to his guns. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. But she had not reckoned with the etiquette of Canongate. Our quarrel's quite over.
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