"Back!" he cried fiercely. “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. The carpenter threw himself flat upon the starling to avoid the fury of the wind. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. As he passed out he saw in the hall a quietly dressed man with keen grey eyes, talking to one of the footmen. She looked, Dorothée said, just as she always looks.
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