If there were any pearls, none came into the light. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. There came a wild rush of anthropological lore into her brain, a flare of indecorous humor.
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