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Ellen ran across the lawn to her, beetle-black in her mourning, but capering as foals do. "I'll not have my breakfast till he does," she announced. "Is there anything I can do for him?" "Nothing, my dear, I'm afraid. But look at the view. Isn't it lovely?" The girl clapped her hands. "Oh, it's bonny. And it's neat. It's redded itself up for Richard's coming."
The shadows slipped in arabesques over the dust-gray floor and scampered as bravely among the rafters as though they were in such a tale as men told in believing days. Rustics in smocks drank ale from tankards; and in a corner was snoring an ear-ringed peddler with his beetle-black head propped on an oilcloth pack. Stamping in, chilly from the ride, Mr. Wrenn laughed aloud.
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