From the sounds of it, he was better off dead. A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. In the middle there was a gate. His conscience never told him to go back and take his punishment; it tortured him only in regard to the deed itself. ‘The general himself?’ ‘How shall I get my inheritance if the general will believe that pig?’ ‘Do wish you wouldn’t keep on calling him a pig,’ Martha begged. She attended to that, and then dismissed it as unimportant.
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