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. "Surely," he added, staring at Rowland, "either I'm greatly mistaken, or it is—" "You are not mistaken, Baptist," returned Rowland with a gesture of silence; "it is your old friend. “My dear boy,” she exclaimed. He hated the taste of it. The curtains which she had left drawn were open, and the electric lights were turned on. " "You can give me a little of his history, can't you? Something about his people?" "Oh, his folks were all right.
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