Courtlaw sat with folded arms. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. She could hear him from the lower floor as he locked the gates and drew up the wooden part of the bridge. “You silly wimmin,” he said over and over again throughout the hearing, plucking at his blotting-pad with busy hands.
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