Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. "I say we, because Miss Rachel and I have struck up a match. I believe I am getting impudent. 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. Her head rose.
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