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“You’d best come inside. Did you eat your rabbit pasty?”
Peter took off the bag he had slung onto his back. It still bulged as it had when he rode away. “No.”
“Let’s see what Betsy can find for you. You need a hot meal.”
“You’re talking to me like a mother!” said Peter, half-angrily.
“Well, your mother’s not here, after all. Come on, boy. You fill your belly with good victuals. The world won’t look so dark after that.” He did not mention Liza. There was no need. The right moment would come.
It came three days later. “I suppose,” said Peter, late in the evening, when he and his father, having made sure that the poultry were shut up safely where foxes couldn’t get at them, were lighting candles so as to see their way to bed, “I suppose I may as well marry Liza Weaver. She’s a nice enough wench.”
“Yes. She is. You won’t regret it, my lad,” said his father.
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