Hard, Cold


Old John was safe buried by the time winter fell full, thank God. The bone-break cold came first, terrible weeks of it, the ground iron hard before the first snows came. At first we thought to conserve our coal and built niggardly fires you could snuff with one hand, but Maisie said we would run out of anything to burn save the roof over our heads well before spring would save us, so we might as well be warm in the meantime. It was a cruel logic,  but we saw the sense in it, and for a time lived comfortable.


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