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The prison-pallor of the squatter's face and hands and the ill-fitting, cheap prison clothes on his big body made him conspicuous among the men on the street. Waldstricker pulled up his team. "Sandy," he called, "come to the office when you're uptown. I want to see you." An hour or so later, the squatter slouched into Waldstricker's private room. The elder rose and greeted him.
Pale with the prison-pallor that never fails to set its seal on the victims of a diseased society, which that society retaliates upon by shutting away from God's own light and air, this man stood there on the steps, a moment, then advanced to meet a woman who was coming toward him in the August glare.
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