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Updated: June 7, 2025
Elim Meikeljohn spoke mechanically: "I'll be responsible for her." The war was over; he had been ordered from the column when his wound had broken afresh, and in a maze of fever he had been irresistibly impelled toward Linden Row. "I'll take her to Bramant's Wharf." Haxall regarded suspiciously the disordered blue uniform; then his gaze shifted to Elim's somber lined countenance.
But in walking out his foot struck against a round object, wrapped in paper, which on investigation proved to be a fruit cake of satisfactory solidity and size. With this beneath his arm he returned to Rosemary Roselle, and they followed Haxall to the wharf where the sloop lay. The tiller was in charge of an old man with peering pale-blue eyes and tremulous siccated hands.
Haxall has just sent thirty loaves of bread, and says she'll bake again to-morrow. There's more wine, too, from Laburnum." The first came back. "The room seems full of things, and yet we have seen how short a way will go what seems so much! And every home gets barer and barer! The merchants are as good as gold. They send and send, but the stores are getting bare, too!
"What do you think," she asked, "since you're in this mood of exasperated veracity or pretend to be of the flower charity?" "Do you mean by the barrel, or the single sack? The Graham, or the best Haxall, or the health-food cold-blast?" asked Sewell.
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