Trodger laid down their muskets and turned on them. If he took a fancy to you, he invited you to the house for tea, bitter and yellow and served in little cups without handles. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless.
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