She sat in a chair in the parlour and regarded the darkening sky through the small casement window. 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. That is what my mother used to call me. ‘Ah, grandpére. The City worried him a good deal, and what energy he had left over he spent partly in golf, a game he treated very seriously, and partly in the practices of microscopic petrography. My Mom and Dad were always 184 at work. But for the next few days he avoided Cheveney like the plague.
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