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 pushed his ashamed way through the little knot of spectators who had gathered from nowhere to watch the scrimmage. Angus stood uncertain; then, when Trueman’s hand dropped from his shoulder, he turned away from it all as from a bit of work completed, and started on his way to the post office. Lydia Canfield’s voice stopped him, an excited, musical chirrup. “You did stand up for yourself,” she said, and seemed to take a special pride in the thing as of her own doing. “If you hadn’t been in jail, and if it wasn’t for other things that, like anybody knows, make you kind of low down and beneath anybody’s notice and so you’re not fit to play with, why, I guess maybe I’d like you.” With which pronouncement, she skipped off light-heartedly, womanlike unaware or careless of the trouble she had caused.