"My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers. The benches running round the room, though fastened to the walls by iron clamps, had been forcibly wrenched off; while the table, which was similarly secured to the boards, was upset, and its contents—bottles, jugs, glasses, and bowls were broken and scattered about in all directions. Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. A good woman’s mind has angels with flaming swords at the portals to keep out fallen thoughts. "You musht do dat shob yourself, Mishter Vild," rejoined Abraham, shaking his head. A sinister thought edged in. “Cheveney wouldn’t have anything to say about it, as it happens,” he remarked, a little grimly.
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