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Updated: May 11, 2025
He stoops a little between the shoulders too when off his guard, though he can look straight and stalwart enough when put to it. He is very dark, a fiercer sun than that which shines on England has burned him a copper colour, and he has a moustache that Munchausen might have envied. He knocks at the door, and asks if Master Reuben Pemberthy can be seen at a moment's notice.
Reuben Pemberthy had left one son behind him, also named Reuben, a stalwart, heavy-browed, good-looking young fellow, who, at two and twenty, was quite as well able to manage the farm and everybody on it as his father had been before him.
Pemberthy, a poor, unlucky lady, a victim to a chronic state of twittering and jingling and twitching, but one who, despite her shivers, had made the late Reuben a good wife, and was a fair housekeeper even now, although superintending housekeeping in jumps, like a palsy-stricken kangaroo. So Sophie and her bustling mother were of material assistance to Mrs.
"They had better come in, aunt, especially as we are quite helpless to keep them out. I could fire that gun," Sophie said, pointing to an unwieldy old blunderbuss slung by straps to the ceiling, " and I know it's loaded. But I'm afraid it wouldn't be of much use." "It might make them angry," said Mrs. Pemberthy. "It would only kill one at the best," remarked Mrs. Tarne, with a heavy sigh.
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