human
Why, ’tis Elizabeth, my lady, laughed William—
gpt
Elizabeth, the snod, li’le donkey we grew so fond of.
human
Give her supper and a warm bed for the night, said Lady Ingilby.
gpt
The luck comes home at last.
human
But does it? asked Joan Grant, a pitiful break in her voice.
gpt
We have lain warm abed while Kit was nursing his wounds on the open moors——
human
True, girl. He’ll be none the worse for it. Lovers have a trick of coming home, like their four-footed kindred.