Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. Won’t you let me—can’t I be of any assistance?” He was obviously in earnest. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. If he wished, he could even take this inheritance from her. Blood dripped down one side of her forehead.
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