category:Racing racing


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    “Aye, it’s what one’s born to that tells; what one comes back to in the end,” nodded a pursy builder, whose gold watch-chain, hung with seals and coins, was draped across his waistcoat like a line of gala bunting. “I knew a man, gents — it’s a fact I’m tellin’ you! — who could ‘a bought out the up-country township he lived in twice and three times over; and yet I’m blessed if this old Johnny-bono didn’t as good as turn on the waterworks when he spoke o’ the pokey old cottage down Devon way, where he’d been young. Seemed as if all the good smells o’ the rest o’ the world couldn’t make up to him for a bit o’ peat burnin’ on a still winter’s evenin’; or new thatch smellin’ in the rains or the softish stink o’ the milch-cows’ dung in long wet meadow grass.”


    2.The rice swept up, the hundred and one boxes of wedding cake dispatched which should intimate to even the least of Zara’s acquaintances that she had quitted the single state, Mary turned to her next job, and drove one morning to St. Kilda to inspect John’s house. She went by herself, for she thought John would thank you to have other eyes than hers quizzing his neglected home. And she was glad indeed no one else was present when, the coachman having unlocked the front door and drawn up the blinds for her, she was free to wander through the deserted rooms. The house had stood empty almost as long as she had been absent from the colony; and, in such a climate as this, two years spelt ruin. No window or door had fitted tightly enough, when hot winds and their accompanying dust-storms swept the town. The dust crunched gritty underfoot; lay in a white layer over all tables and polished surfaces; made it impossible to look out of the windows. The cobwebs that hung from the corners of the ceilings, and festooned the lustred chandeliers, were thick as string with it. You could hardly see yourself in the mirrors for fly-specks, or see the wax flowers under their shades. Everywhere, in hundreds, flies and blowflies lay dead. Moths had ravaged each single woollen article she laid hands on. The beautiful Brussels carpets were eaten into holes, as were also curtains and bed-hangings, table-covers and the backs of wool-worked chairs. It was truly a scene of desolation.
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