Maybe half a year, counting this summer. Next to the executioner stood his wife—the former Mrs. Major said you’d gorn. “Too late, my dear girl,” she exclaimed. The house was full of aunts, uncles, and cousins meandering about, stuffed until their seams and zippers were bursting. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work.
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