“And aren’t there fees to pay at the Imperial College?” her aunt was saying—a disagreeable question. A white apron was tied round his waist, and into the apron was thrust a short thick truncheon, which looked very much like a rolling-pin. Distress, deep-rooted, and age old. She could tell it was new territory for him and he might lose the nerve to take them off himself, without the aid of drink. Wild has done his business.
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