" As he said this, in a low and mournful, but firm voice, the tears gathered thickly in Winifred's dark eyelashes. A thin mist lay on the river, giving the few craft moving about in it a ghostly look. My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. He's a hundred miles sou'-east of me. On a bench at the foot of the trees, with a pipe in his mouth, and a tankard by his side, sat the worthy carpenter, looking the picture of good-heartedness and benevolence. When the bell rang, she lagged behind as was her habit.
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