She was never violent when angry: she became as calm and baffling as the sea in doldrums. "I don't see how you do it, Hoddy. About the Abbey and Abingdon Street stood the outer pickets and detachments of the police, their attention all directed westward to where the women in Caxton Hall, Westminster, hummed like an angry hive. Their momentary absence seemed to have worked wonders; for now the most perfect understanding appeared to subsist between them. Her eyes were wide and bright. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. She leaned forward and addressed him. It was cheating, pitiful cheating. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation.
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