” She repeated, as if she answered an objector: “A sort of blacklegging. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. "The shoulder-clappers!" added a lady, who, in her anxiety to join the party, had unintentionally substituted her husband's nether habiliments for her own petticoats. In between naps she increasingly found herself gazing at him, his large nose, his eyes circled in silvery plum shadows, his thin lips parted as he slept baring a rim of perfect teeth. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. ’ ‘You mean the bookroom, miss.
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