“Why, John! Are you standing there in your night gown painting?”,
Aunt Grenertsen was difficult to talk with—so contrary, somehow, even if not really cross, that it was very tiresome. She wasn’t the least bit like Uncle Isaac of Kingthorpe, who was always kind and gentle, always pleasant. Oh, dear, no! Aunt Grenertsen wasn’t like Uncle Isaac; far, far from it!,
What a shame, what a shame that he should be the poorest rider of all! On the way back he whipped Bob so that the horse finally ran, puffing, coughing, and stumbling along..
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