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Folk talk about them hares that slink through Harrowden’s mist, always close but never quite there when you turn to look. Puddle, Hob, and Loom, black as soot, quick as thought, loping through ginnels and lurking in the hedge-shade. They never leave Ammie Thornwick’s side, though none can say if she called them or if they found her first.
They are not tame. They are not friendly. But they are hers.