As the body was borne to the house in the arms of the farming-men, Mr. My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. Panting with effort, she held her point menacingly at Gosse’s chest. “I love you, you know. Crossing several fields, newly mown, or filled with lines of tedded hay, she arrived, not without great exertion, at the summit of a hill. Mr. I’ve never had a homemade Thanksgiving meal like that.
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