The winter had turned sea and sky to a wet gray. He then mounted the jaded hack, which had long since regained its legs, and was quietly browsing the grass at the road-side, and, striking spurs into its side, rode off. I’d rather not go,” she added. "I should think so," responded the lethargic turnkey, with a yawn. "Those chops, fried potatoes, and buttered toast.
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