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‘Move, you. Never be downhearted. My son wanted to marry a woman of thirty in a tobacconist’s shop. She fixed her eyes upon it and ran, keeping always as far as possible in the shadow of the hedge, gazing fearfully every now and then down along the valley for the white smoke of the train. A married man!—the kind I've never been able to lure down there! But keep your temper in check. " "You hear, my son," said the widow eagerly. For this three weeks had been the hardest of her life. “Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech.
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