" "My dear," said the hospitable carpenter, "I dare say Mr. Ann Veronica sat firelit by her tea-tray with, quite unconsciously, the air of an expert hostess. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter, turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had undergone.
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