She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. Before a word could be said, however, a slight noise was heard in the chimney, and Jack with his irons on descended from it. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. 255 “You have a very talented son,” was her opening line. What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be she. Oh God! pardon me.
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