It was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him. Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms. She was ushered into the back of the squad car. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. She wanted to kiss his feet.
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