She never knew what became of her farmer after that. Aside from some loose coin and a trunk key, there was nothing in the pockets: no mail, no letter of credit, not even a tailor's label. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. "The Chevalier shall hear of this," whispered the woollen-draper.
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