She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. “He is not—I don’t like him. She loved to dress the Fritz and Anna in outfits that she stitched from discarded velvet dresses. He rang the doorbell, even though she had already cracked the door for him.
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