The rear of the party was brought up by a large, powerfully-built man, with a bluff, honest, but rugged countenance, slashed with many a cut and scar, and stamped with that surly, sturdy, bull-dog-like look, which an Englishman always delights to contemplate, because he conceives it to be characteristic of his countrymen. “Mary! What’s going on! Why are you crying?!” He commanded an answer in a worried and slightly irritated tone. Now the baby’s bright May eyes peered up at her intently. To my loving husband Rodney, who is truly a dream come true. “What year was 221 that, about 1350?” He asked in wonderment.
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