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Page 147
She must have sensed his denial. "Hannah says she knows things about people. You've accepted that about her."
"I've accepted that she's a good housekeeper," he said.
Her fingers toyed with her coffee cup. He noted again that her hands, although graceful, were callused and dry, as though used to heavy work.
She said, "I wouldn't believe my story myself, except here I am."
"And you're more than a hundred fifty years old? I wouldn't have guessed you a day over a hundred." Again, he did not restrain his sarcasm.
Her gaze flew upward until she stared into his face. Her chocolate-brown eyes glistened with gathering tears, and she appeared as wounded as if he had slapped her. He was immediately ashamed but couldn't help his incredulity. "You can't expect me to accept your story without question," he said.
"I suppose not, but I don't know how to prove it."
He stood. He needed time to think, to sort out Abby's story and what to do with her. "I'm going to finish my coffee in the den."
"I'll see if Hannah needs any help," she said, her voice small and muffled. She ran from the room.

Hannah already had finished the supper dishes, for she was just removing her apron as Abby reached the kitchen.
The housekeeper paused, a stricken expression

 
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