Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. What he intended to do with it is of little consequence now. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. He paced faster, stomping around. You. The third time she escaped she reached the inconsequent barricade of the overturned table. Put him in the stocks, and there let him sleep off his drunken fit.
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