” “Sir John is an ass!” he declared. Water sprung from the corners of the school roof, turning it into a gigantic fountain. But she veiled her feelings. “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. Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. One or two landladies refused her with an air of conscious virtue that she found hard to explain. He might go on as the devoted lover until he tired.
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