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ArtistHe had been the only child of a widowed mother. That was a long time ago. His neighbours weren’t sure now if he was as old as the village over the hill or older than the hill over the village. He had outlived everyone who could say. His knobbly and gout-swollen fingers found it difficult to grasp the stick in the rain. Once the cold got into his bones it was difficult to get it back out. Wracked with ague and gnarled with age, his thoughts drifted more and more to his wife lately.