All that was needed to complete the simile was that the girl should burst into song. The man was thick set, with a bright roving eye. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. It’s the feinting tricks you have to watch for. She found it extremely difficult to infuse an air of quiet correctitude into her return through the window, and when she was safely inside she waved clinched fists and executed a noiseless dance of rage. “I thought every one had heard,” said Miss Klegg. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so. "My mother,—my poor mother!" exclaimed Jack.
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