She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. Stanley professed a great solicitude to warm his hands. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. She kicked him in the shin, trying to knock him off his feet. His glasses were gone. She put a stool for him at a little distance from her own, and after he had seen the day’s work he hesitated, and then plunged into a resumption of their discussion about beauty. But Gerald kept to a casual note. Mr.
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