There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. One glance through the window at that picturesque head had been sufficient. “Time for my Patience,” she said. The girls had such freedom, a wonderful chance afforded to them to go out in the wide world before making babies, it was nothing like the world she had come of age in. I told him Valade had tried to borrow money off me and asked if he could vouch for the fellow.
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