Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. Anything else that was said she now regarded only as an aspect of or diversion from that. “You haven’t come here to make a lot of difficulties?” she asked. Blueskin therefore had nothing to stop him. In doing this, he chanced to raise his eyes and half fancied he beheld, shaded by a pillar at the extremity of the western aisle, the horrible countenance of the thief-taker.
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