"Well, I'll put the roan in the stable, Tom; then I'll mosey 'cross home and get my men at the cider-makin'. A few frosts like last night's, an' all the apples will be soured. See you tonight at prayer-meetin'.",
"Jacobs," he said, crisply, "I'll give you twenty-four hours in which to lose yourself. You can't stay here.",
"You have not lost it, Mr Greyquill.".
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