Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. Mrs Sindlesham occupied a large padded armchair to one side of a corner fireplace, which gave out a heat more than adequate for September to one of the major’s robust constitution. ‘Now what?’ The guard jerked his head up the corridor. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. The mob pursued the thief-taker and his party all the way, and such missiles as could be collected were hurled at them. “That cannot happen!” She replied, feeling her world start to disintegrate underneath her feet. “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.
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