“And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. Before she passed out she turned and faced Sir John. And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true. The militiaman at once thrust the old man between the shoulder blades, pushing him into the kitchen. He walked unsteadily towards the door.
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