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The white fingers passed in a slow, pitiful way over the dead, worn face. There was a heavy shadow in the quiet eyes. "Did hur know where they'll bury Hugh?" said Deborah in a shrill tone, catching her arm. This had been the question hanging on her lips all day. "In t' town-yard? Under t'mud and ash? T'lad 'll smother, woman! He wur born on t'lane moor, where t'air is frick and strong.
Take hur out, for God's sake, take hur out where t'air blows!" The Quaker hesitated, but only for a moment. She put her strong arm around Deborah and led her to the window. "Thee sees the hills, friend, over the river? Thee sees how the light lies warm there, and the winds of God blow all the day? I live there, where the blue smoke is, by the trees. Look at me."
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