"Whatever you like, Hoddy," she agreed, wiping the sweat from her forehead. A thin mist lay on the river, giving the few craft moving about in it a ghostly look. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. Having seen him heavily ironed, and placed in the Condemned Hold, Jonathan recrossed the street. Evidently her foresight has saved me a funeral. .
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