His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. ‘Of course I see that,’ she said impatiently. You want industry—you want steadiness. As soon as the manacles were slipped over the prisoner's wrists, and the new padlock secured to the staple, they withdrew. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her.
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