She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. There! You are trying to take your hand away. She made a quick movement, and the hand fell away. Everything proclaimed the mischievous propensities of the recent occupants of the chamber. "He's a base, deceitful, tyrannical, hoary-headed libertine—that's what he is. So Mrs. . “You appear,” she said, without any sign of anger in her tone, and with unruffled composure, “to be a very impertinent person. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave.
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