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Updated: May 4, 2025
Her husband sat at a table in one corner of the spotless kitchen, eating a belated lunch. He was a tall man, and stooped so that his sunburned beard almost touched the plate. "Mr. Turnbull was here," said Mrs. Randall, with an air of introducing a subject rather than of giving information. The man held a knife-load of smear-case in front of his mouth, and grunted.
So, while she ate her bread and smear-case, she made up her mind to follow the professor after the meal was over and unburden herself. But no chance to see him alone was afforded her. He disappeared to pack his trunk while she was doing the dishes, and did not emerge again during the evening.
It was not an interrogative grunt, but his wife went on. "He said he could 'a' put off coming if he'd known you had to go to mill." Mr. Randall swallowed the smear-case. His bushy eyebrows met across his face, and he scowled so that the hairs stood out horizontally. "Did you tell him I could 'a' put off going to mill till I knowed he was coming?"
There was smear-case too, milk gravy and sauce made of English currants. She began picking at the food, saying that she could not eat; and I noticed that her lips were pale, while her face was crimson as if with fever.
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