Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. The entrance of the house 85 was grand, and upon entering she was immediately greeted by John’s mother, a tall, thin woman quite a few years older than Cathy Beck. They did not care— servant or master, it meant nothing. How I envied those kids whose Moms picked them up when they got hurt or sick! I fainted in Gym Class when they made me climb the rope.
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