"Stow it, Nab!" exclaimed Quilt, angrily; "the kinchen's awake. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. And then, as she stood there, with the fragments of the torn canvas at her feet, some even caught upon her skirt, the door was thrown open, and a girl entered humming a light tune. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. " "Comin'! comin'!" returned the constable, shuffling towards him.
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