"I can," replied Trenchard. The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. It seemed to him that speech would be an anticlimax. On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in a blanket and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. He told some of the particulars. I made her my unwilling confederate.
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