There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. The both of them puttering about the tidy two-story house, Lucy would serve them both steaming cups of tea in the front parlor. (“Good job. Nothing was given away, and no one came so rich to the stall as to command all that it had to offer. Yet you can look Cheveney in the face and declare that you do not know him.
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