82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome. He went in and leaned, panting, against one wall. ” “What?” “That’s the devil of it!” “Devil of what?. You can scribble if you want to, but after you've given your eight hours daily to the mills. He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness.
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