" So saying, he re-entered the house, closed the door, and, followed by the widow, proceeded to the fire-place, where a handful of chips, apparently just lighted, crackled within the rusty grate. But this might be merely a figurative mode of describing his customary vigilance. It's gin—a liquor you used to like. She never knew what became of her farmer after that. ” She gestured to an abandoned farmhouse down a long stretch of icy dirt road.
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