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My lad!" panted the farmer, "I am sorry." "Thanky, farmer; but fine words butter no parsneps. Theer, bairn," he cried, putting his arm round his wife's waist; "don't cry that away. We aren't owd folks, and I'm going to begin again. Be a good dry plaace after fire's done, and theer'll be some niced bits left for yow to heat the oven when fire's out." "And no oven, no roof, no fireside."
"Tak' you over to the Warren, my lad?" said Hickathrift, as they reached the wheelwright's shed, where the big fellow was just taking down a hoe to go gardening. "Why, of course I will. Straange niced evening, Mr Marston! Come along. I'll put on my coat though, for the mist'll be thick to-night."
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