She rose to the fire to stoke it. “What ought you to do?” “I’ve hunted up all sorts of things. The flowers and turf, a wild strawberry, a rare butterfly, and suchlike little intimate things had become more interesting than mountains. John knew everybody, it seemed. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. Yet he’s been here for six years, and he’s as much a fixture as that sham mahogany sideboard. You give her a daub here and there where the rust shows.
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