"Did you ever see such bully
old trees? Any time you wanted to sell off lots, you see, you could do it
on this side, without touching the farm."
"Where's the house?" asked Mrs. Ranny.
"Right through here," said Quin, holding back the branches, "Now, ain't
that a nice old place?"
His enthusiasm met with no response.
In the center of what had once been a clearing stood an old stone
building, half smothered in a wilderness of weeds and sassafras and cane,
its one big chimney dreaming in the silence that seemed to have
encompassed it for ages. The shutters hung disconsolate on their hinges,
the window-panes were broken, the cornice sagged dejectedly.
Eleanor's heart sank. It was worse, far worse, than Papa Claude had
described it, fit only for the birds and spiders and chipmunks that were
already in possession. How Quin could ever for a moment have thought of
selling such a place to the fastidious Bartletts was more than she could
imagine.
But he was carrying the matter off with a high hand, in spite of the
dismayed faces of his prospective buyers.
"Of course it needs a shave," he admitted, as he tore down a handful of
trailing vines that barred the front door.
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