Mr. S. Death belongs to God, young man. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned. And Blueskin, who, for a moment, had looked round distrustfully, concluding it was a feint, now laughed louder than ever. Lucy had baked the apple and pumpkin pies, carefully molding the flour crusts and adding extra teaspoonfuls of allspice and cinnamon while no one looked. "I'm my own master now, and I'll do as I please. CHAPTER XXVI.
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