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Chapter 9

           Buttherewasaforceworking;somethingnothighlyconscious;somethingthatleered,somethingthatlurched;somethingnotinspiredtogoaboutitsworkwithdignifiedritualorsolemnchanting.Mrs.McNabgroaned;Mrs.Bastcreaked.Theywereold;theywerestiff;theirlegsached.Theycamewiththeirbroomsandpailsatlast;theygottowork.Allofasudden,wouldMrs.McNabseethatthehousewasready,oneoftheyoungladieswrote:wouldshegetthisdone;wouldshegetthatdone;allinahurry.Theymightbecomingforthesummer;hadlefteverythingtothelast;expectedtofindthingsastheyhadleftthem.Slowlyandpainfully,withbroomandpail,mopping,scouring,Mrs.McNab,Mrs.Bast,stayedthecorruptionandtherot;rescuedfromthepoolofTimethatwasfastclosingoverthemnowabasin,nowacupboard;fetchedupfromoblivionalltheWaverleynovelsandatea-setonemorning;intheafternoonrestoredtosunandairabrassfenderandasetofsteelfire-irons.George,Mrs.Bast’sson,caughttherats,andcutthegrass.Theyhadthebuilders.Attendedwiththecreakingofhingesandthescreechingofbolts,theslammingandbangingofdamp-swollenwoodwork,somerustylaboriousbirthseemedtobetakingplace,asthewomen,stooping,rising,groaning,singing,slappedandslammed,upstairsnow,nowdowninthecellars.Oh,theysaid,thework!

           Theydranktheirteainthebedroomsometimes,orinthestudy;breakingoffworkatmid-daywiththesmudgeontheirfaces,andtheiroldhandsclaspedandcrampedwiththebroomhandles.

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