Beyond was an avenue of tall poplars that rose like columns, disappearing into undulating hills that were black with sleeping houses and fertile soil. The militiaman at once thrust the old man between the shoulder blades, pushing him into the kitchen. There was nothing to be learned from her face. What is he—English or American?" "American. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment.
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