For so far she had kept it uncashed. It was better even than the hymn-singing. ‘Oh, peste,’ she cried out in distressed tones. “Please forgive me coming up, Miss Pellissier, but you have not been down to dinner for three nights, and—Brendon and I—we were afraid that you might be unwell. “To Hell if we don’t change our ways. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. “Forgive you, indeed.
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