"My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. Byby. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. Poor fellow! he sometimes indulges the hope of marrying you, when he grows old enough. “Too greasy for me.
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