A white apron was tied round his waist, and into the apron was thrust a short thick truncheon, which looked very much like a rolling-pin. It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. He did not care whether the stories were accepted or not. ’ For a moment he looked daunted. ’ ‘For shame, Hilary,’ admonished his fiancée, casting a pitying glance at the refugees.
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