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Updated: May 23, 2025
In her weariness forgetting everything, she moved about at the little tasks that remained to be done, set his breakfast, rinsed his pit-bottle, put his pit-clothes on the hearth to warm, set his pit-boots beside them, put him out a clean scarf and snap-bag and two apples, raked the fire, and went to bed. He was already dead asleep.
Morel, who had guessed. "I'll let 'im know when I get him," said Morel, banging his pit-bottle on to the dresser. "I suppose Mrs. Anthony's got hold of you and been yarning to you about Alfy's collar," said Mrs. Morel, rather sneering. "Niver mind who's got hold of me," said Morel. "When I get hold of 'IM I'll make his bones rattle." "It's a poor tale," said Mrs.
Conversation was impossible between the father and any other member of the family. He was an outsider. He had denied the God in him. The only times when he entered again into the life of his own people was when he worked, and was happy at work. Sometimes, in the evening, he cobbled the boots or mended the kettle or his pit-bottle.
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