” 152 < 19 > THE WINDS OF NOVEMBER The Thanksgiving season brought a fierce wind that relentlessly whipped around the brick corners of the school. “Don’t know me, eh? I like that. “And yet you still live, Butterfly. He'll mend, I hope. "It is never too late. His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot. ’ His friend held it out of the way. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections.
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