No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. “I can’t imagine what has come over you,” said her aunt. Come into the parlour, Winifred, and dry your eyes directly, or I'll send you to bed.
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