“And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. As he stood upon the bridge, he held down the light, and looked into the profound abyss. This was automatically rather than thoughtfully done; habit. He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. Good-bye aunt.
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