"But there! There's a power
of difference in men, same as there is in yeast. Some starts working right
away, and when you puts it down afore the fire your bread plums up
beautiful. But I've known yeast what you couldn't get to work as it
should--stale stuff, maybe--and then the bread lies 'eavy on your stomach.
It's like that with husbands. I dare say some of 'em be good enough, but
there's some what isn't, and George Coombe, he was one of that sort. But I
don't bear him no grudge. He was a bit plaguey to live with, but he died
proper--with his face to the foe, as you may say, so I've no call to be
ashamed of him."
"I'm sure you haven't," agreed Ann warmly, and, leaving Maria to her
bread-making, she ran off to feed the poultry. Much to her delight, her
first brood of fluffy youngsters had hatched out the previous day.
A few hours later Tony wired _"Arriving 3.30 train to-morrow."_ And now
"to-morrow" had become to-day, and Ann, alone in the ralli-cart, was
sending Dick Turpin smartly along the road to the station.
The station at Silverquay, as is so often the case at a seaside town, was
more or less of a common meeting ground for the inhabitants, and it was
quite an unusual thing not to run across some one one knew there,
exchanging a library book or purchasing a paper at the bookstall.
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