Her companion was a person of no inferior condition. If you ride past the church, and mount the hill, you'll come to Neasdon and then you'll not have above half a mile to go. His face was very serious. But he did not follow on with the thought. “Life’s so queer,” she said, kneeling and looking into the flames. He was nearly wincing. His clothes were smartly pressed, his linen white, his jaws cleanly shaven; but the day would come when he would grow indifferent to bodily cleanliness.
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