The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. The bed-and table-linen were of the finest texture. She was trying to adjust the wimple, dragging at it and fighting with her loosened hair. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. She could not help but admit that she liked being smiled at and addressed in the hallways by hordes of friendly faces.
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