A white apron was tied round his waist, and into the apron was thrust a short thick truncheon, which looked very much like a rolling-pin. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. Time wore on somewhat slowly with the prisoner, who had to control his impatience in the best way he could; but as the shades of evening were darkening, the door was unlocked, and Mr. Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk. She had agonized over it for weeks. Part of his head was swathed in linen bandages. “They make me want to shout,” said Mr.
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