His anger gave way to grim humour and he thrust towards them, leaning heavily on his cane. Oh! you haven't got the key—then I must have it, I suppose. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. I—I hurt myself. Excuse me an instant while I dismiss this person. Mind, I, Baptist Kettleby, say so. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian.
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