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They were no more afraid of the workhouse than of the Russian secret police; and of their father's early history they knew naught. Mr Shushions had died in the workhouse, and Darius had taken his body out of the workhouse, and had organised for it a funeral which was to be rendered impressive by a procession of Turnhill Sunday school teachers.
She was too changeable, too dark, and too light... But it was exciting. It was flattering. He saw again and again her gesture as she bent to Mr Shushions; and the straightening of her spine as she left the garden-porch on the night of his visit to the Orgreaves... Yet he did not like her.
And Hilda, dissolving in painful pity, bent over him softly and arranged his disordered clothes; she was weeping. "Shall we go back to our barrels?" Edwin Clayhanger rather sheepishly suggested after Mr. Shushions had been dragged away. But she would not go back to the barrels. "I think it's time we set about to find Janet and Mr. Orgreave," she replied coldly, and they drew out of the crowd.
Yet September was tried, in spite of Mr Shushions, and when even September would not work satisfactorily, God's ordinance was shifted boldly to May, in order to catch people, and their pockets well before the demoralisation incident to holidays.
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