Sheila was a stout woman, her bosoms huge, her face 110 wide and square. The spinsters had purchased one grass-linen tablecloth; the girl and the young man had purchased nothing. ‘It is Yol—’ She broke off abruptly, her face collapsing into an expression of acute consternation. “I suppose all life is an affair of chances. “So it seems that I was wrong. "Not that I know of," replied the carpenter, who had in some degree recovered his confidence. Very soon she would be able to forget it.
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