In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. She remembered him as a dull figure, a big man with a belly that was already showing fat under his fine scarlet clothes. Her life hangs upon a thread, and this may snap it. ’ And with that he went off to the City, stern and silent, leaving his bacon on his plate—a great slice of bacon hardly touched. ’ Dieu du ciel, but she was a fool.
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