. 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. "Of course," responded the widow, heaving a deep sigh. The pearls were really yours?" "They were left to me by my mother. " "A boy from his shop was here a short time ago. He did not play golf, but took his exercise on horseback, which was also unsympathetic. She barely heard a word that Martin or Brown said, until Martin’s voice chimed.
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