She knew, or guessed his mission too, for more than once their eyes met, and she laughed mockingly at him. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert. My foster mom works there as a second job. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility.
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