He was now aided with a powerful implement, with which he soon contrived to make a hole in the wall. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. “Don’t fence with me,” Anna cried fiercely. All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so.
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