Anna looked at her, startled. “You know—,” said Mr. Tears sprang to her eyes. "I am coming to the point, Joan. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. She had been sitting on the bench for two and a half hours, which was uneventful except for the homeless men who begged for change. I hate children.
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