But that was soon put right, and she walked out into London with a peculiar exaltation of mind, an exaltation that partook of panic and defiance, but was chiefly a sense of vast unexampled release. When she came to, she was lying with her head in Martha’s lap, and a livid bruise was forming at the point of a raging headache. “I will not have this slavery,” she said. She killed a man who was squatting outside of a freezing brick shanty on the southern edge of Chicago as he waited for his dealer. Then the girl was heading past the inn and Roding marched down to confront her.
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