She thrashed and screamed as he wrestled her back towards the bed. She was pleased and a little flattered by his interest and sympathy. The ceiling had, in many places, given way; the laths had been removed; and, where any plaster remained, it was either mapped and blistered with damps, or festooned with dusty cobwebs. The door to the room in question was closed. It was the first expression of the mother's blood. We men are like children. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror.
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