GR-1029 Camille On Her Own by Mark Whiting (EB)
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Camille ventured a glance at the clock behind the counter when she was certain that Mr. Brodie had gone back into the stock room. It was not even half past three. The clock seemed frozen. Her head was lanced by a thin splinter of throbbing pain. The customers bellied up to the juice bar, shouting their orders over the din of clattering streetcars in the street, shuffling their nickels and dimes and quarters across the formica counter top.
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