What our dear mother would say back home I dread to think. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. A thing which had mystified her since childhood, a smouldering wonder why it should be, and until now she had never felt the urge to investigate. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. If you had taken your degree, for example.
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