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The Story of Sheelah

The six o'clock whistle sounded. For a moment the tall, grim stock-yards buildings stood silent; then they broke into life, as the thousands of men and women workers poured out of the doors and spread into irregular streams over the yards, hurrying homeward, north, south, and west. Their haste was without energy, however; there was little talking and almost no laughter; they were vacant-minded after their hours of rushing, mechanical toil. Sheelah Doyne almost ran, with short, sobbing breaths, until she had crossed the tracks. She was a slim, delicate girl, with the deep gray eyes and black hair which proclaimed her Irish blood.

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