“What were you doing?” Her voice was a little hysterical. Fresh ground, no chicory, and all the rest of it. It developed into a sort of secret and private bad manners. The Tigress went prowling for nut, too. Of all crafts,—and it was the only craft his poor father, who, to do him justice, was one of the best workmen that ever handled a saw or drove a nail, could never understand,—of all crafts, I say, to be an honest man is the master-craft. “I’m rather a persistent person. He'll mend, I hope.
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