" "Then, most probably, it was the widow Sheppard," answered Blueskin, sulkily. She was ashamed of herself for the simple gladness she felt wash over her as the infant’s screams ended. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. ‘Assuredly it is locked up. “This is all rot!” he declared angrily. He wanted to know what the joke against him was—if any.
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