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A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. “Thank you,” she said coolly. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. The darkness prevented the carpenter from discerning the features or figure of the stranger; and the ceaseless din precluded the possibility of holding any communication by words with him. She happened to have an acute sense of form and unusual mental lucidity, and she found in biology, and particularly in comparative anatomy, a very considerable interest, albeit the illumination it cast upon her personal life was not altogether direct. It is a matter of degree. Together they crept through the erstwhile drawing room and entered the massive flagged hall. They simply understood there was a greater need to get over the past than to talk about it.
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