She guarded her mother, or at least she had liked to think so. ’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. " Mrs. There is a small yewtree west of the church. Nobody who cared. “Look here, father,” she said, with a change in her voice, “suppose I won’t stand it?” He regarded her as though this was a new idea. She was always initiating petty breaches of discipline. Then she took her sister’s hand. Looking for something, or someone, probably.
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