The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. He brought another small loaf, and a can with which he replenished the pitcher, recommending Jack to be careful, as he would get nothing further till morning. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. Cathy reached out and touched Lucy’s chin with her two fingers, gently commanding her attention. "Poor thing!" muttered he, as the widow departed on her errand, "she's seen better days and better circumstances than she'll ever see again, I'm sure. “Hello, John. The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks.
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