The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. It is positively hateful to think of it. And they never talked of anything at all, never discussed, never even encouraged gossip. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death. He was now at the entrance of the chapel, and striking the door over which he had previously climbed a violent blow with the bar, it flew open. " "I tell 'ee what, saltwater," said Ben, "I'll lay you my fare—and that'll be two shillin'—I'm back in an hour. Amid a litter of nails without heads, screws without worms, and locks without wards, lay a glue-pot and an oilstone, two articles which their owner was wont to term "his right hand and his left. The glance, which he threw at the door, was singularly expressive of his character: it was a mixture of alarm, effrontery, and resolution.
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