The salt air was fresher than the stale air in the manor. The inside was empty except for an infant, which from a distance looked utterly normal. The winters were terrible in cold climates, and she often had been driven to dig herself large underground pits where she waited it out like a mole in the cold months. Wood, I command you not to stir," vociferated the carpenter's better-half; "recollect you'll be answerable to me. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. There are a thousand questions I'd like to ask you, but I sha'n't ask them.
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