A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. He had not to wait long. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. Mr. “Well,” he said at last slowly, “I’ll pay it.
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