"_Mais, M'sieu' Jean_," the Machine-Fixer said
trembling, "_Vous savez elle est forte._ She gave the six of them a
fight, I tell you. And three of them went to the doctor as a result of
their efforts, including _le vieux_ (The Black Holster). But of course
they succeeded in beating her up, six men upon one woman. She was beaten
badly, I tell you, before she gave in. _M'sieu' Jean, ils sont tous--les
plantons et le Directeur Lui-Meme et le Surveillant et le Gestionnaire et
tous--ils sont des--_" and he said very nicely what they were, and lit
his little black pipe with a crisp curving upward gesture, and shook like
a blade of grass.
With which specimen of purely mediaeval torture I leave the subject of
Women, and embark upon the quieter if no less enlightening subject of
Sunday.
Sunday, it will be recalled, was Monsieur le Directeur's third weapon.
That is to say: lest the ordinarily tantalising proximity of _les femmes_
should not inspire _les hommes_ to deeds which placed the doers
automatically in the clutches of himself, his subordinates, and _la
punition_, it was arranged that once a week the tantalising proximity
aforesaid should be supplanted by a positively maddening approach to
coincidence.
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