She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. “You must not think of me as one. ’ ‘But it is stupide. And experience was slow in coming. ” To remain, she felt, was to concede everything. And now let's go back to the Shovels, and finish our brandewyn and bier, Muntmeester.
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