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. " "It was her own fault," observed Blueskin, moodily. "Read that," rejoined Austin, pointing to the placard. Impassive by nature and training, he was conscious to-night of a strange sense of excitement, of exhilaration tempered by a dull background of disappointment.
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