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Mr Blackshaw looked right through the inquirer a way he had when his brain was working hard. And he suddenly smiled by the light of the match. 'That child wasn't crying because I was there, said Mr Blackshaw with solemn relief. 'Not at all! He was crying because he didn't understand the candles. He isn't used to candles, and they frightened him. And he began to hurry towards the Works.
And when his wife met him at the front door of a night at seven-thirty and launched instantly into a description of the wonders, delights, and excitations of Roger's latest bath, Mr Blackshaw was ready to tear his hair with disappointment and frustration.
'Yes, it's dreadful having our face washed, isn't it? said Mrs Blackshaw, with her sleeves up, and her hair by this time down. 'We don't like it, do we? Yes, yes. Emmie grunted, without a sound, and yet Mrs Blackshaw heard her, and finished that face quickly and turned to the hands. 'Potato-gardens every day, she said. 'Evzy day-day. Fat little creases! There! He likes that! There! Feet! Feet!
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