‘That there governess didn’t like it, of course, me being the lodgekeeper’s girl, and Martha just a country wench like me. Of course, at home there would have been questions. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. “Well,” he said, argumentatively, “it IS. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. But I’m thinking as how I’d best report to the major over this here shooting.
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