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He was silent. And in those days, too, he used to help her mother with her gardening, and hover about her while she stood on the ladder and hammered creepers to the scullery wall. Her confession was still unmade. "Whose house do you want, master?" said the man, touching his hat. Hope reared. I'll think no more about her. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. All her life Martha had been there.
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