“John! Welcome! Happy Thanksgiving!” Cathy cried, ushering him deeper into the house. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. You’ll be telling me Gerald did not catch you snooping at the Bicknacres, I suppose. ” He glared at Martin.
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