She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Kneebone assured her that he did say so; and, as a further proof of his sincerity, squeezed her hand very warmly under the table. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes.
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