He shook his head all the time. “But who’s going to pay for the room?” “I’ve got money,” said Ann Veronica. Give me the books. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. "If I had my old tools with me, we'd soon master this obstacle," he muttered. "Of course," responded the widow, heaving a deep sigh.
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