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Updated: May 14, 2025
About the time Jack MacRae with his burden of venison drew near his own dooryard, Betty Gower came out upon the winter-sodden lawn before their cottage and having crossed it ran lightly up the steps to the wide porch. From there she saw her father standing on the Point. She called to him. At her hail he came trudging to the house. Betty was piling wood in the living-room fireplace when he came in.
Half an hour later I stood before the cottage, set primly in the center of a great lot that extended for half a square on all sides. A winter-sodden, bare enough sight it was in the gray of that March day. But it was not long before Alma Pflugel, standing in the midst of it, the March winds flapping her neat skirts about her ankles, filled it with a blaze of color.
But he possessed his soul in some sort of patience, writing a brief answer, telling her how sorry he was not to see her. The day after this, he stayed at home it seemed so futile to go down to the office. His father could not live the week out. And he wanted to be at home, suspended. Gerald sat on a chair by the window in his father's room. The landscape outside was black and winter-sodden.
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