" "Poor child!" muttered Trenchard, abstractedly; "the whole scene upon the river is passing before me. The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length dawned. Red apples and snow! How often had these two things entered his thoughts since his wanderings began? Red apples and snow!—and never again to behold them! "I am going out for a little while," she said. The house will be well rid of him, for a more idle, good-for-nothing reprobate never crossed its threshold. He recognized the handwriting, and turned a shade paler. That is not reasonable. “Oh goody.
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