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Updated: June 18, 2025
Then from the red earthenware panchion of dough that stood in a corner she took another handful of paste, worked it to the proper shape, and dropped it into a tin. As she was doing so Barker knocked and entered. He was a quiet, compact little man, who looked as if he would go through a stone wall. His black hair was cropped short, his head was bony.
Morel took a panchion, a great bowl of thick red earth, streamed a heap of white sugar into the bottom, and then, straining herself to the weight, was pouring in the liquor. Just then Morel came in. He had been very jolly in the Nelson, but coming home had grown irritable.
These were like herself. And there was he, saying in his throat bitterly: "Tu te rappelleras la beaute des caresses." The poem was finished; he took the bread out of the oven, arranging the burnt loaves at the bottom of the panchion, the good ones at the top. The desiccated loaf remained swathed up in the scullery. "Mater needn't know till morning," he said.
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