“I really owe him something of an apology. ” “No, mine. A white apron was tied round his waist, and into the apron was thrust a short thick truncheon, which looked very much like a rolling-pin. Not one of them but bore the marks of having been engaged in a recent and severe conflict. Then he hovered undecidedly for some seconds with his hands in his pockets and his mouth puckered to a whistle before he turned to go home by the Avenue. "Let us in," said the Master, rapping his truncheon authoritatively against the boards, "or we'll force an entrance. Two souls in travail; one inspired by fresh hopes, the other, by fresh despairs.
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