From “Down Devon Way’ by S. P. B. Mais
I spent a happy evening at the “Chichester Arms” at Mortehoe, a white-washed inn of great antiquity. Tom Parker, who year after year looks after the two donkeys on Woolacombe beach, told me that one of them, Mary, had died on her legs at the age of twenty-seven just a month before. “And my poor father,” he went on, “who died last autumn, said to me with his dying breath, “Mary’ll not live twelve month’
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